Exposed: A Thriller Novella

Prologue

Her eyes open to the steady beep … beep … beep of a heart monitor machine.

She’s in a hospital bed. Alone. Wearing one of those flimsy gowns.

She has no idea how she got here.

An overdose? Did she take too many downs?

She concentrates, tries to remember.

Her last memory is of …

Of what?

Walking somewhere. To the dealer?

No. To the free clinic. Ashamed, hoping her STD was something that could be treated with a pill.

She talked to three different doctors. They took her blood. Made her wait a long time.

And then …

A shot. They gave her a shot. She touches the spot on her arm, then notices the IV tube snaking from the back of her hand, the sensor pads stuck to her chest.

They gave her a shot, and now she’s in the hospital?

She glances around the room. White walls, no window, not even a television. This place doesn’t smell like a hospital. It smells like a garage.

Where is she?

She looks for a call button, can’t find one, and then begins to yell for the nurse.

She yells several times.

No one comes.

Was anyone there at all?

Beep … beep … beep …

She sits up, feeling absolutely normal. No pain beyond the tug of the needle in her hand. No dizziness. So why is she here?

“Someone answer me!”

No answer.

She’s thirsty. She has to pee. She needs to know what’s going on.

Using her fingernails, she picks the edge of the tape on her hand, then peels it back and tugs out the IV, wincing as the blood beads up. Then she reaches under her gown and tears the sticky pads from her skin.

The machine by her bed stops beeping, giving way to a sustained tone. Like someone just died.

Still no one comes.

There’s a drawer next to the bed, but her clothes aren’t in it.

She stands, the white tile cold under her bare feet, and pads over to the door.

Opens it.

This isn’t a hospital.

It’s a warehouse. A big warehouse, with concrete floors, steel walls, forty-foot ceilings. There are pieces of medical equipment on carts, several tables and chairs, some cages along the far wall, and …

Oh, sweet Lord.

Dead people.

Lots and lots of dead people.

Many are in white lab coats, stained with blood. Others are in what look like military fatigues, equally soaked in red.

A dozen. Maybe more. Lying on the ground. Propped against a chair. Sprawled out on a table. Two crimson figures, arms around one another, bruised faces forever frozen in agony.

Then the smell hits her.

She chokes back a sob and begins to run, past the cages, which are filled with—dead monkeys?—heading for a door at the other side of the building, praying it isn’t locked, skidding to a stop when it suddenly opens wide and an army guy stands there with a big rifle pointed her way.

“Help me. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“There’s been an attack,” he says. His eyes quickly scan her, stopping on her hand. “You’re bleeding.”

She glances down at her hand, where the IV needle had been. A slow trickle of blood snakes down her index finger.

“It’s just—”

“Hold still,” he orders. Then he pulls something off of his belt, and before she can react he’s spraying her hand with some sort of foam. It dries almost instantly, forming a hard crust.

“What is—”

“A liquid bandage. Quickly, come with me.”

He has an accent she can’t place, but she doesn’t care where he’s from. He’s there for her, there to help her. She takes his gloved hand, and he leads her outside, into the blinding sunlight.

Water laps a shoreline to the left and to the right.

An island?

She smells salt riding the air, the scent familiar. The Atlantic Ocean.

There’s a sound, too, beating in her ears, a helicopter on a landing pad, its blades whirling. The soldier nods at the two army guys standing guard and then takes her to it.

She’s scared, confused. But she wants to get out of here, to get away from all the dead people. As they buckle their seatbelts, she’s very close to crying. Then the soldier smiles at her.

“You’re very beautiful,” he says.

His words surprise her. She thinks she must look terrible. That tacky gown. No make-up. Her hair all messed to hell. But she knows she’s pretty. She’s been getting by on her looks since she was twelve.

“I want to be a model,” she says. It’s a weird thing to say, but she doesn’t want to talk about the dead people.

He nods, appears to think it over. Then he says, “You know, I have a friend, works for a modeling agency. I bet he could help you.”

“Really?” This has to be the most surreal moment in her entire life, and she almost wonders if it’s all a dream.

“Do you have family? Someone who would be worried about you?”

She hesitates, then shakes her head.

“I’ll call my friend. You can stay with him. He’s very famous. Did covers for Vogue and Elle. He rescues models all the time.”

The chopper lifts off and zooms over water. A larger island unfolds beneath them, Long Island, the vague haze of New York City barely visible in the distance.

Despite not wanting to think, she wonders what’s going on. Why she’s here. Why all those people are dead.

She wonders if they cured her STD.

But all of that pales in comparison to what the army guy said.

She came to New York to get discovered.

Now, maybe, she finally would be.

Chandler

Several years ago … before I had to FLEE …

“To a special operative like yourself,” The Instructor said, “it can be tempting to rely on your physical training and strength. But some missions will call for more than that. Many times, knowing how to fit into your surroundings, understanding human behavior, and plain old acting skills will be more effective than brute force. Learn to be a chameleon, and you have a better chance of being successful.”

I have always preferred formulating my own explosive with household chemicals to creating a smoky eye in the makeup mirror. So when I pulled the barely-there dress and four-inch Jimmy Choos out of the FedEx package the bellman had brought up to my hotel room, my stomach gave a nervous flutter.

Not a good sign in a spy who had been trained to control her emotions.

I returned the cell phone to my ear and frowned, hoping my new handler could sense my attitude as it bounced off New York City’s cell towers.

“So where does this op take place, Jacob? A strip club?”

He laughed, the sound a slightly robotic, electronically disguised version of his real voice.

Not that I’d ever heard his real voice.

“If you want, I can call around, see if any of the area clubs have an amateur night.”

I couldn’t help but smile, at least a little. Jacob and I hadn’t worked together long—this was only our third operation together—and I was still trying to figure out if I trusted him. On the positive side, I was a sucker for humor.

But that didn’t mean I appreciated his fashion sense.

“I can’t conceal a weapon in this outfit. You realize that, right?”

Pushing my dark hair over one shoulder, I held the dress against my body with my free hand and peered into the Manhattan hotel room’s mirrored closet door.

Okay, so it was hot. Damn hot.

Maybe I could make due with a knife strapped to the inside of my thigh.

It would have to be a very short knife.

“You can’t be carrying. They’ll search you before they let you inside.”

“And my cell phone? Where am I supposed to stash that?” Jacob had just sent me a new encrypted cell, and I was under strict orders to keep it with me at all times, no exceptions. It was even waterproof, so I could take it into the shower.

“Did you notice the bag? Check the lining. Like the dress, it’s been prepared for you.”

I took another look in the box. A small, cross-body purse lay at the bottom, black sequins and tassels. I opened it, running my fingertips over the interior and feeling the familiar shapes of two rolled bills and two small wires. I had emergency cash and lock picks sewn into the hems of all my clothing. Being prepared wasn’t only for Boy Scouts.

“The strap has a steel wire in it,” Jacob continued. “It can be used as a garrote.”

I tugged on the strap, feeling the bite of the wire inside the leather. “Talk about a killer handbag.”

“So now that we have your wardrobe covered, care to hear what you’ll be doing?”

“Shoot.”

“That’s it, actually. You’ll be going to a photo shoot.”

“As in a modeling photo shoot?” Not a typical day in my line of work. “Explain.”

“The Bradford and Sims Modeling Agency is a front for—”

“Let me guess. Porn.”

“Too easy, but yes. And human trafficking. They promise stardom to young girls, then ship them overseas and sell them.”

“Sexual slavery. Nice.”

“We’re still gathering information on the group.”

Gathering information? In our first two ops, Jacob had been all about preparation. He’d known everything about everything. That he was sending me in before he really knew what I was facing made me uneasy.

“Is this a rush job?” I asked.

“Marked urgent, and we only have a small time window, so we’ll need to keep in close contact in case the situation changes.”

“These traffickers, you want me to read them bedtime stories?” Before I put them to sleep.

“They aren’t the important thing here. They’ve recruited the eighteen-year-old daughter of a VIP. You are to return her to her father unharmed. Not a scratch. The orders are specific about that. She cannot be harmed in any way, not even slightly. I’m sending her photo. She’s using the name Julianne James.”

A babysitting job. A first for me. I glanced at the phone, and a picture of a pretty blonde came up on the screen.

“Who’s her daddy?”

“I don’t have that information.”

It had to be someone important if they were sending me in. There weren’t very many agents in the world with my kind of training.

“Where is the shoot?”

“North of the Hamptons. Your contact is working as a driver for the modeling agency. Your exchange is E-B-P-D.”

“Got it.”

“He’ll introduce you as new recruit Claire Thomas.”

“Claire Thomas,” I repeated, trying on my new name. I used and discarded identities like Kleenex. The only constant was my codename: Chandler. My real name was nobody’s business.

“You’re twenty-five years old, an aspiring model from Brooklyn. Your contact will get you in. After you get the girl, text your location to this number, and he’ll pick you up.”

A number appeared on the screen.

“He’ll be at the curb in twenty minutes. And Chandler?”

“Yes.”

“The girl thinks she’s getting her big break. She might need some convincing before she’ll be willing to leave.”

“And if I can’t convince her?”

“Just get her out of there in one piece. Unharmed.” Jacob signed off.

I got dressed and did my best to channel my inner Max Factor while I sank into the role. I was a wannabe model. Several years younger than my actual age. Pretty. Spoiled. Used to getting my way, but still naive about men. I was looking for my big break. I would do whatever I could to get it.

I went heavy on the make-up, dark eyes and too much pink lip gloss. The dress fit as if it was designed for me, and the shoes made me feel like sex on a stick.

“I’m Claire Thomas,” I said into the mirror. And I believed it.

I slipped my phone into the purse, then headed down to meet my contact.

Human voices, background music, and the clack of heels on marble floors all rose to greet me before I reached the ground floor. The scent of coffee drifted from the resident Starbucks, and a woman passed me wearing enough perfume to enchant half of Times Square.

I personally disliked big anonymous hotels. But due to my frequent need to be anonymous, I stayed in them often. Sometimes the best place to hide was in a crowd. Even so, negotiating the revolving door and stepping out into summer’s hot chaos on the flashing neon streets of New York overloaded my senses. The smell of hot dogs on the street corner and falafel down the block warred with exhaust and teeming humanity. The jangle of car horns and voices and the thump of a bass guitar assaulted me from various angles. The late morning was warmer, stickier, than the hotel lobby, a bit of autumn cool threatening to make an appearance but chickening out.

I paused and forced myself to focus, cataloging each noise and smell and sight, becoming grounded in the now. At the same time, I shut off part of myself—the part that worried about applying makeup and got an ego boost from a good dress and sexy shoes—and I let the other part take over.

The part that had been trained to kill people for the government.

Dismissing the white noise and glitz and big city smells, I ignored what belonged there and singled out what didn’t.

Someone was watching me.

I glanced north to 46th Street.

A man stared at me, standing with his hands at his sides, on the curb next to a black Lincoln Town Car. He was in his mid-thirties, handsome in that GQ kind of way, dressed in a dark suit and sunglasses. It wasn’t his appearance or the car that raised my notice—in midtown Manhattan, the only type of vehicle more common than a black Town Car was a yellow taxi cab, and many of the chauffeurs dressed as if they were auditioning for a role in the Men In Black sequel. No, it was his air of calmness, of stillness, of total focus, that was strong enough to raise the hair on my arms.

And in that split-second assessment, I judged him to be a dangerous man.

My contact, no doubt.

I made a quick visual sweep of the street to be certain he was alone, and then I walked to the car. As I approached, he climbed out, circled to the curb, and reached for the back door handle with his left hand.

“Miss Thomas?”

I nodded. “Hello, Eddie.”

“Going to the ballet?”

“How about the park?”

“Yes. They have ducks.”

I suppressed a smile, amused that the only noun beginning with the letter D he could manage on the fly was ducks. His danger vibe went down a notch.

He opened the door and I settled into the leather seat, then he circled back to his spot behind the wheel, and soon we joined the flow of cabs, limos, and delivery trucks.

Traffic moved well, and it took less time than I’d estimated for us to get through midtown, take the Queens Midtown Tunnel under the East River, and hit the Long Island Expressway. Industrial landscapes gave way to shopping malls and carefully managed green space, then on to nature preserves, beaches, and country clubs. I inched the window open. The scents of salt water and fresh cut grass tinged the air and the screech of gulls rose over the whistling wind. The expressway dwindled to winding roads and the housing seemed to range from vacation mansions to vacation palaces.

“These aren’t nice men, you know.” The first words he’d said since I’d climbed in the car.

His face tilted up to the rearview mirror, and I met his stare.

“I’m not nice, either.”

I watched his lips turn up in the barest hint of a smile. “I know we’re strangers, but can we get on a code-name basis?”

“Call me Chandler.”

“Call me Morrissey.”

I wished I could see his eyes, but they were hidden by his sunglasses. “Thanks for the tip, Morrissey.”

He swung the car into a long drive that wound through a copse of salt-stunted trees.

“They aren’t going to let you take her. Not without a fight. And they’re armed. You’re not.”

“How do you know I’m not?”

“Your purse doesn’t have anything heavier than a cell phone in it. I can tell by how it hangs. And that dress … you couldn’t conceal anything in that dress.”

“Just make sure you’re ready to pick us up when you’re called.”

“I’ll be ready for more than that.”

The car emerged from foliage, and I caught my first glimpse of the house. All contemporary angles, glass and sprawl, it looked cold and hard and expensive. The blue of the water beyond held the unreal look of a movie set.

I scooped in a breath of salt air. My big break. Photos on the beach. My name is Claire Thomas, and The Bradford and Sims Modeling Agency is going to make me a star.

“Remember,” Morrissey said out of the corner of his mouth, “she can’t be harmed.”

That again.

I was going to ask him what the deal was with that when the front door opened, and a man wearing a blue polo shirt and gray trousers stepped out. Shoulders as wide as a linebacker’s, he squinted blue eyes into the sun, his scalp pink under blond stubble. He stood at the top of the staircase, a Tec-9 submachine gun hanging under his arm on a strap.

What kind of modeling agency required that much fire power?

“Follow my lead.” Morrissey gave me a final look and stepped out of the car. He circled the Lincoln and opened my door. Like a good chauffeur, he offered his hand to help me from the car.

I took it. His skin felt rough, a man used to doing more than driving for a living. Jacob hadn’t told me anything about him, but most likely his work was similar to mine. Though I didn’t let on, I liked that he noticed my dress. After all this, maybe we’d have an opportunity to get together. There was no room in my life for a real relationship, but that didn’t mean I had no needs. Someone like him might be just the ticket. No strings, no complications.

He hauled me out into the sun and released my hand. I allowed myself to look him over as I followed him up the steps. The stillness I’d noticed earlier left his body, and his stride took on the swagger of a man who fancied himself a player. He tossed a look over his shoulder, pride with a hint of ownership in his gaze, as if he’d just won a hand of blackjack in Vegas and I was his prize.

I had to wonder if I changed that drastically when settling into character. Probably. It was hard to know who another person really was, but in this line of work it was damn near impossible.

I’d be smarter to stick to the usual outlet for my sexual energy; random men picked up in bars.

Morrissey stopped in front of the burly sentinel and cocked one leg. “Hey, Udelhoffer. How’s it going?”

The behemoth eyed me. “Who is this?” His accent carried hints of Eastern Europe but with Brooklyn overtones, suggesting to me he’d been in the States for a while.

“Nice, huh?” Morrissey said, continuing with his schtick. “Your boss said if I found girls to model, he’d give a bonus. If they had something special clients liked, a little extra.”

“This is a closed shoot.”

“Not what I heard.”

The big man gave Morrissey a dead-man’s stare. “You heard wrong.”

I kept silent. A young girl in my situation wouldn’t dare be too forward, not with her dreams on the line. If Morrissey couldn’t pull this off, I’d find another way.

Morrissey thrust out his hand, palms up. “So, what? You expect me to turn around and drive all the way back to the city?”

Another stare for an answer, silent this time.

Morrissey shook his head. “Not gonna happen. I was given promises. I stuck my neck out here. This one?” He motioned to me, “A favor for Tony D’Angelo.”

The man didn’t even spare me a glance but kept his attention on Morrissey.

“You know who D’Angelo is, right?”

A nod from the hired help.

Morrissey continued, punctuating his words with thrusting waves of his hands. “I said I’d help her get a job, know what I mean? He’s not going to like it if I don’t come through on my word. He might even call some of his friends, you know? And I ain’t going to take all the blame.”

Udelhoffer let out a heavy sigh. “Wait here.” He stepped into the house and closed the door behind him.

I did a quick scan of the doorway and eaves. No closed circuit cameras. Probably not needed with an armed guard at the entrance. Even so, I kept my voice low, paranoid about bugs.

“D’Angelo? Let me guess. Gambino family?”

Morrissey gave a curt nod. “I needed to make it easier to let you in than turn you away.”

“And you think they’ll buy that I’m some mistress he needs to get rid of?”

“That depends on how well you sell it.”

When I’d assumed a cover identity in the past, I had prided myself on preparation. Knowing everything about who I was supposed to be and who I was dealing with had saved my ass more than once. This operation had been rushed from the beginning, and now I was supposed to be the pawn of a mob figure I knew nothing about. I had to wonder if, in getting me in the door, Morrissey had just handed me a death sentence.

“I can sell it.”

I would have to. Not only was my life dependent on it, but so was a girl’s future.

The door swung open and Udelhoffer motioned me inside. As soon as I stepped into the marble foyer, he held up a hand, blocking Morrissey. “You’ll hear from me if she works out.”

Morrissey nodded and the door closed in his face.

I was on my own.

The man stared down at me with the dim look of hired muscle. “You wanna be a model, huh?”

I channeled eager. “More than anything.”

He shrugged a shoulder and heaved another sigh. “Yeah. We’ll take care of you. Purse.”

“Huh?”

He grabbed it without asking, digging a paw inside, fingering my phone and make-up. If he noticed I was conveniently missing a wallet or any kind of ID, he didn’t give me any indication it made him suspicious.

“Come with me.”

I followed Udelhoffer to the back of the house, taking note of my surroundings as I went. The house was furnished in a modern, generic style, the pieces and arrangements big on price tags but low on originality or warmth. I smelled gardenias from the back porch, a hint of some sort of animal musk, and the distinctive oniony, deep-fried smell of McDonalds coming from the kitchen and breakfast nook. A police scanner erupted in fits and starts, blending with a faint Latin beat drifting from somewhere in the house.

“How many girls are you shooting today?” I said without selling the obvious irony.

Udelhoffer kept walking, not bothering to answer. He led me out to a patio surrounding a kidney-shaped pool. The air smelled of salt water and fish, and beyond the pool, sunlight shimmered on Long Island Sound. Three other men stood near the diving board. They weren’t armed that I could see, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they had weapons nearby. The blonde in Jacob’s picture perched on a chaise lounge, dressed in a miniskirt and tee, a small carry-on suitcase on the paving stones in front of her sandaled feet.

No one even pretended to be snapping photos.

Udelhoffer stopped in front of a swarthy man with a hawk-like hooked nose, and they shared a few hushed words. Too quiet for me to hear, but I’m a fair lip reader. I saw Gambino, favor, and ice.

Even though the big man towered above, it was clear from their body language that Hawk Nose was in charge. Dressed in a button-down open at the neck, he looked more like a South American businessman than a thug, except for the shoulder holster under his jacket.

The third was average height and skinny, yet judging from the sinewy muscles in his arms, as strong as steel wire. He had ex-military written all over him and reminded me of a man I’d killed in Columbia. Tight shirt, and I didn’t spot his carry until I noticed the bulge on his right ankle.

The fourth was portly, with sweat stains in the armpits of his Hawaiian shirt. He wore khakis and loafers, no socks, and I couldn’t spot a pistol on him. An investor, maybe? Or a perspective buyer?

Udelhoffer finished his briefing, and Hawk Nose slowly walked over to me, a smile on his face that was pure mockery. “So … you ever model before?”

I pegged his accent as Venezuelan. “I’ve done some—”

“Then you know how this works.”

I had no clue. But since I doubted he did either, I gave him what I hoped was an enthusiastic nod and motioned to Julianne James, the real reason I was there. “Should I go sit down with the other model while you get ready?”

“In a minute.”

His smile widened. He grabbed a nearby bag, rummaged inside, then held up a skimpy bikini.

“Put this on … for the pictures. And since you’re a model, you should be used to dressing and undressing at the shoot.”

These men might not be overly concerned about selling their modeling agency cover, but they weren’t stupid. Making me strip in front of them provided more than a cheap thrill. It let them check if I was wearing a wire. Or a weapon.

“Sure.”

I unslung my purse. Leaving my heels on, I pulled the dress over my head. Next I slipped off my bra, stepped out of my panties and stood in front of them totally nude.

The fact that four men were staring didn’t bother me. After all, I was a model, used to being gawked at. I tried on a playful smile and held out my hand for the bikini.

After a lengthy pause, the man in charge handed me a scrap of a swimsuit.

I pulled it on, keeping my voice steady. “Let me know when you’re ready for me,” I breathed, then wiggled across the patio and took the chair beside the blonde.

“I’m Claire.”

“Julianne.”

I peered into her sunglasses, but only my reflection stared back.

“Are you going to be part of the shoot?”

A slow shake of her head.

“They say I’m going to Paris.” She didn’t seem convinced, and the syllables took too long to roll off her tongue. From all appearances she was under the influence of something beyond the lust for modeling stardom.

“Really?” I forced awe into my voice. “To model? When?”

“They said soon.”

Jacob might not have a lot of information about this operation, but what he did have was correct as usual. Now I only had to figure out how to get her out of here before “soon” rolled around.

“Have you signed a contract?”

Another head shake. For someone who’d been told she was about to go to Paris to model, Julianne was acting incredibly detached.

“I know an attorney. He told me what to look for. You know, just to make sure you’re getting what you’re worth.”

I didn’t know if an eighteen year old would care about something as practical as contract negotiation, especially when she was sailing on whatever drug they had given her. But I needed to lure her away from the pool and the men watching us, and beyond physically dragging her, I had few options. “If we could go somewhere private for just a few seconds, I’ll fill you in.”

“No, thanks.”

“It’ll just take—”

She lowered her voice. “They aren’t going to like you talking to me.”

Then I understood. I wasn’t hearing disinterest in her voice. I was hearing worry.

“Why not?” I asked.

She leaned in closer. “They haven’t taken any pictures of me. They won’t let me leave. I can’t even make outside phone calls.”

“You’re the only girl here?”

“No. There are others. But they’re doing X-rated stuff.”

“Have they made you do any?” I asked, feeling myself grow cold.

“They haven’t even asked. No one has tried anything.” She shook her head, like she was denying an accusation. “Men have always liked me. I’ve never been around guys who didn’t try to hit on me.”

My first thought was surprise that these men hadn’t tasted the goods.

My second was that maybe there was a reason.

“Julianne, are you a virgin?”

Virgins fetched top dollar on the slave market.

A crease dug between her eyebrows. “What?”

“Are you?”

“Not since I was fourteen.” She lowered her sunglasses, staring into my eyes. They were glassy, but there was panic dancing beneath the dope haze.

“Have they hurt you? Threatened you?”

“They mostly ignore me. I thought maybe they were gay, but I saw two of them messing around with the other girls.”

I considered repeating what Jacob had told me, that she was going to be sold. But I didn’t see how scaring her even more would improve the situation. Besides, something wasn’t adding up.

“I don’t think they’re taking me to Paris,” she said.

“So why are you here?”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes focused on me, and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m scared.”

“I can get you out of here,” I said. “Do you want me to?”

She nodded. “Will you? Please?”

“Leave it to me, okay? Just be ready when I tell you.”

“Thanks.” She reached over, squeezed my hand.

I squeezed back.

Movement, in my peripheral vision. Hawaiian Shirt had left the other men and was now circling the pool to where we sat, an expensive-looking digital camera around his neck. He motioned to me, the tip of his tongue flicking out and running across his bottom lip.

“Okay, you. Miss Hot to Trot. Come on.”

I didn’t want to let Julianne out of my sight, but I couldn’t exactly refuse my chance to become a big star. A few bikini shots in the sand would still give me a chance to keep an eye on her. I scrambled to my feet, doing my best to look excited.

He turned in the direction of the house.

“I thought we were going to shoot on the beach, since I’m wearing a swim suit and all.”

He opened the patio door and ushered me inside. “Trust me, honey. This will be better.”

Inside he made for the staircase to the second floor.

I could guess what kind of pictures he was planning to take. A guess that was confirmed as we went deeper into the mansion. A long hallway opened at the top of the stairs, doors flanking both sides, most standing open. I peeked into the first, hearing moaning.

The lighting—a simple klieg on a tripod—was strictly amateur hour. And so was the talent. But what she lacked in professionalism she made up for with enthusiasm. I guessed this shoot could have been called, I Love Fruit, because that’s what the girl was doing.

“Now the Bartlett, babe,” the cameraman cooed as he snapped away. “And put the strawberry up to your lips. No, your other lips.”

The next door down was a video production of the more vanilla variety. Guy on girl, pretty standard stuff.

Scratch that. An animal musk odor made me look closer, and I noticed a miniature donkey next to the bed.

I’d call that production, A Piece of Ass.

“You like to watch?” Hawaiian Shirt asked, leering over his shoulder.

“I’m more of a doer than a watcher,” I answered, hoping my grin looked real.

We passed another door, saw another video shoot.

I’m pretty shock-proof, but my cover persona, Claire Thomas, wouldn’t be.

“Yuck.” I gave a shudder. “That’s gross.”

“Gotta keep upping the ante,” Hawaiian Shirt said. “We’re calling it Three Girls, One Cup. You want to join in?”

“No, thanks. I already ate. And I don’t want to eat that.”

We were almost to the end of the hall when a sound caught my attention. More a beat in my chest than a noise, but I recognized it immediately.

A helicopter.

Many millionaires had vacation homes in the area and few suffered the inconvenience of traffic snarls on their way back and forth to Manhattan. Around here, helipads were as common as tennis courts. But as much as I told myself all these facts, my gut said the arrival of this particular aircraft was no coincidence. It was here for Julianne, and I was stuck modeling for nudie shots with this chubby Seymore Butts wannabe.

He chose the last bedroom on the left.

The room was large, furnished only by a king size bed. It smelled of new paint and sheets that needed changing. Windows looked out on the Sound, and I spotted a purple Bell corporate-type helicopter approaching the beach.

“Let’s try a few on the bed. Take off your top, show me those sweet tits again.”

I struggled to look unsure.

“Come on, all the famous bitches did nudes. Marilyn Monroe did nudes. You want to be famous like her, right?”

I chewed my lower lip and pretended to think it over. “Well, okay, I guess.”

I set my purse on the nightstand, perched on the bed and untied the bikini top. I needed an opening, some way to escape my photographer without the men downstairs finding out and greeting me with gunfire.

I let the top fall to the bed.

He snapped a few shots then paused, stretching his neck.

“Stiff neck?” I asked.

“It’s nothing. Arch your back more. Show me what a hot little slut you are.”

I’ll show you something else instead.

“I can help you with that,” I cooed. “The stiff neck. I used to date a chiropractor.”

I climbed to my knees. Sitting back on my heels, I spread my thighs wide and patted the bed in front of me. “Why don’t you come over here.”

The smile spreading over his fat face had nothing to do with spinal adjustment. He put down the camera and sat where I’d indicated.

I massaged his shoulders for a few seconds, then unbuttoned his shirt, revolted that his boobs were even larger than mine.

“You really do want a modeling career, don’t you?”

“More than anything.” I pressed myself against his back, skin on skin. Circling my arms around his shoulders, I snaked one hand down to his crotch.

He moaned, deep in his throat.

“I can adjust this, too,” I said.

“Oh, yeah, baby. Here I thought I was going to have to slap you around. I still might. Horny bitch like you would like that, I bet.”

Charming.

I cradled his head between my breasts then smoothed my right hand around his shoulder and massaged up the back of his head to his scalp. I could feel him relax, goose bumps rising on his back.

I collared his neck with my left arm, and then before he realized what was happening, I grabbed my right elbow, pushed his head downward into the V of my left arm and flexed my biceps, applying pressure to his carotid artery.

He tensed, but even though he had weight and strength on me, it only took seconds before he was unconscious. Stopping the blood supply to the brain will do that.

I slipped out behind him and let his body fall back on the bed.

Breaking someone’s neck isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies. It also isn’t lethal 100% of the time.

Breaking someone’s trachea and cutting of their air supply is simpler, and more effective. It’s possible to survive a broken neck. Survive not breathing? Not so much.

I chopped the sex-trafficking pig in the windpipe, not sticking around to watch him suffocate. Grabbing my scrap of a bikini top, I slipped the memory card out of the camera and into my purse and closed the door behind me.

I had finished tying the top around my back and slinging my purse across my chest by the time I reached the patio. The whump whump whump of the helicopter blade pulsed in the air. The sun glared off the water, making me squint. Raising my hand to shield my eyes, I scanned the chairs surrounding the pool.

The other men were gone.

So was Julianne James.

“No operation is simple,” said The Instructor. “Things can invariably go wrong, and like any good soldier, you have to be ready to improvise, adapt, overcome.”

I started down the steps, leaving the door open behind me. Once the helicopter left the ground, Julianne would be lost, and I’d be damned if I was going to let that happen. She had taken up with some bad people, which made her more like me at that age than I wanted to admit. But I’d been given another chance.

She deserved one, too.

“Where are you going?”

I hadn’t spotted Udelhoffer standing behind a hedge that separated pool from lawn, but now he stepped out from the right, coming at me fast for such a big man.

Adrenaline spiked my blood, making everything slower, clearer. Udelhoffer’s movement. The drum of my heartbeat. The smell of the water and screech of the gulls. I stopped and held up my hands. “I was just wondering where everyone went.”

“What happened to Ronnie?”

“He’s taking a breather.”

Udelhoffer’s eyes narrowed. His beefy fingers twitched. I could see him thinking it over. Asking himself, is this just some dumb bimbo, or is something going on here?

His training kicked in.

His hand went for the Tec-9.

I anticipated the move and kicked to the side, my right foot striking just below his knee cap. I followed the blow through, scraping the side of my shoe down his shin, drilling the stiletto heel into his instep.

He bellowed like a bull.

Without pause, I brought a knife hand blow to his forearm, targeting his radial nerve just below the elbow. Localized strikes are hard to pull off on a moving target, but I was fast.

The Tec-9 fell from his grip and swung on its sling. I grabbed the strap, dropped, and jerked it off his shoulder, twisting as I did. Then I released. The machine gun skittered across flagstones without going off.

I moved to follow-up with a chin jab, missing and hitting his chest. High heels were effective weapons, but they also made balancing trickier. By putting so much of my weight behind the stab to his foot and the blow to his arm, I’d left myself unbalanced.

I saw him aim the palm of his hand for my chin, but I couldn’t reverse my momentum fast enough.

My head snapped backward, the blow clanging through my skull. My brain stuttered, overtaken with too much stimuli at once. I staggered, almost going down. Motes of light swirled in my vision just as the pain came.

He lunged at me again, slamming a fist into my solar plexus.

Air burst from my lungs, and I doubled over and tried not to puke.

He came at me again, an old-fashioned right hook this time.

I twisted out of the way, causing his attack to bounce off the top of my skull. But even though it was a glancing blow, the force clanged through my head like a fire bell. I was able to get in close and respond with an elbow strike, snapping it up under his chin, but I wasn’t sure the behemoth even felt it.

“That’s enough.”

I heard the unmistakable sound of someone racking a semi-auto.

Udelhoffer and I both stumbled to a halt. Above us on the steps, Hawk Nose glared down, a 9mm pointed at my chest.

Another dark-haired man emerged from the house, one I hadn’t seen before. Wearing a white Scarface suit, he held an automatic pistol.

Outnumbered and outgunned, I dropped my gaze and rounded my shoulders, looking submissive.

“Take her inside. Think you can handle that, Udelhoffer?”

The brute grumbled, breathing hard. He wrapped his left arm around my right like a bridegroom escorting me down the aisle, then grabbed my hand, locking me into place by his side. It was a hold often used by police to convince unruly civilians to come along without a fuss. Just a little pressure and he could easily bring me to the ground or break my elbow.

I gasped as if he was hurting me. “Let me go. Please.”

He forced me back in the direction of the house.

The pulse of helicopter blades speeding up their rotation registered somewhere in the back of my mind. If that craft lifted off, Julianne was gone.

I couldn’t let that happen.

The man’s training and size would enable him to counter any move I threw at him. My only shot was suckering him into underestimating me. I thrashed against him ineffectively, hoping to convince him this was all I had left to give.

“Knock it off.” He put pressure on my wrist, and I let out a cry of pain that wasn’t entirely acting.

I let him lead me past the pool, and we started up the shallow flagstone steps. Above us, Hawk Nose lowered his pistol. Apparently satisfied that Udelhoffer was under control, he and the other man turned and slipped into the house ahead of us.

Halfway up, I stumbled a little, getting out of step, throwing him slightly off balance. Then I made my move.

I veered toward him and reached down with my free hand, grabbing his balls and yanking them like the handle of a Nautilus machine.

He released my arm, buckling over with a grunt. No matter how much hand-to-hand training a man had, when you went below the belt he forgot everything and tried to protect the goods.

As he leaned forward I slipped to the side, grabbing his shoulder, using his momentum to carry him forward and introduce his head to the stone planter at the top of the stairs. He hit it with a dull thud, then crumpled to the ground.

I didn’t know if I’d killed him or merely incapacitated him, and I didn’t wait to find out. I raced down the stairs and past the pool, kicking the shoes from my feet as I ran for the helicopter.

I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d do once I reached it. I had no weapon, no plan. The aircraft was a purple Bell 427, under ten years old. Twin engine, light utility, seated eight. Through the cabin doors I saw four people inside, one of them the pilot, one Julianne. I’d been trained to fly several different varieties of chopper, including more common types used for corporate flying, but I didn’t think they were just going to hand over the keys because I asked nicely.

Voices erupted behind me, but I didn’t turn to look. I ran in a zigzag pattern, waiting for the pop of gunfire, but it never came.

Then I heard grunting behind me; a runner, giving chase.

I straightened course and pushed more energy into my legs. The grass was stiff and harsh against the soles of my feet, jabbing and slicing. The copter backwash was hot, smelled like exhaust, blowing faster and louder every step closer, until I couldn’t hear my pursuer anymore.

But I knew he was still there.

Ahead the helicopter shifted to one side, then started to lift.

I hit a dip in the ground and stumbled to one knee. Pushing off, I righted myself and ran harder.

I could feel the man behind me now, feel his footsteps gaining. I was fast, but in a few strides he would overtake me.

I was nearly upon the aircraft. Sand particles pelted my skin, stirred into the air by the blades. Hair whipped across my eyes. The chopper was now three feet in the air, rising fast.

There was only one thing I could do, and I couldn’t believe I was actually going to attempt it.

Once I passed under the chopper, I leaped for all I was worth. My fingertips hit the right skid. I grabbed on, one hand slipping. The helicopter swayed and bucked and for a moment, and I thought the whole thing might come down on top of me. I made another swipe with my loose hand, and this time my fingers held and the helicopter lifted me into the air.

My pursuer was right beneath me. His arms closed around my legs, binding, holding tight. It was the Tony Montana wannabe.

I twisted, fighting to break free.

The chopper tipped and veered to the right.

I pulled a foot loose and kicked, hitting him in the forehead with my heel, but he wouldn’t let go.

The blades canted, dangerously low to the ground. One hit and it would be over for all of us. I’d seen a bird cartwheel before. They never found all the pieces of the dead.

I pummeled Scarface with my bare heel, the force shuddering up my leg. His hold slipped. He clawed at my knee, locking my ankle in his armpit, but I kept up my assault, driving my foot into his head, his face, as we ascended.

My grip was one of my best skills. I could crack walnuts barehanded. Once, during training, I hung onto an iron bar for six hours.

But I didn’t have an extra hundred eighty pounds gripping my ankles, or the extra g-force of liftoff. Unable to hold on, my left hand slipped off the skid.

My right wrist turned, and I felt like I was being pulled in half. I chanced a look down, saw the ground blurring beneath me, and got a straight shot of fear.

Fear was an ugly, destructive thing. It enveloped you, made you doubt yourself, clouded your thinking and muddied your ability to act.

But human physiology also provided a plus to counter all of those minuses. The fear kick-started my adrenal cortex, and I got a pop of adrenaline that made me feel like my muscles had been electrified.

Screaming against the pain, the weight, I slapped my loose hand up against the skid and doubled my kicking efforts, aiming for my assailant’s nose, feeling each impact shudder up from my heel to my palms.

Say! Hello! To! My! Little! Friend!

Scarface finally let go when we were high enough for the fall to break his neck.

The helicopter rolled in the other direction, and it was all I could do to hold on. The air swirled around me, beating like fists. Tears filled my eyes and streaked my face. Hair lashed my cheeks.

If I lived through this, I swore I’d shave my head.

The copter leveled and rose into the air. My shoulder and chest still ached from Udelhoffer’s blows, and I groaned as I performed a pull-up and hooked my elbows over the skid. Below, the ground receded, and soon we were flying over Long Island Sound.

Vibration from the rotors knocked my teeth together. Pressure squeezed my chest, making it hard to breathe. I had never been fond of heights, but that was nothing next to my hatred of water. I’d never forget the feeling of it closing over my head, trapping me, filling my lungs, pulling me down …

Another shot of fear overtook me, so powerful I almost panicked, and for a moment I thought I might fall.

I closed my eyes, blocking out the sparkling blue below. I couldn’t let myself think of the water, the height. I had to focus on getting control of the helicopter. I could land this one in my sleep. I just needed to get inside.

That meant I had to get the other passengers outside.

I kicked one knee over the skid and looked up into a side window just in time to see the barrel of a rifle—AR15 or M16—staring at me.

I pushed myself forward and flipped head first, diving between skid and the body of the craft. A piece of cake in the gym. A bit more complicated hanging from a helicopter.

Swinging from my hands, I jackknifed my body toward the bottom of the bird, not thinking, just acting on muscle memory. Finding the bracket where the skids connected to the craft, I pulled up and caught it with my knees. I hung wildly like that for a second, upside down, wind beating me, before I could find a handhold and right myself.

I looked up. A gun barrel poked under the fuselage. Then a boot followed, bracing on the skid.

I didn’t wait for him to get a shot lined up. I switched my grip to my hands. Using my stomach muscles, I swung my body as before, and on the second swing, aimed both feet directly at the boot. My heels hit hard, and the boot slipped, followed by the man. The rifle jarred free of his hands and hung by the strap around his shoulder. He caught the skid with his elbows, his legs dangling right beside me.

The craft bobbed then dipped like a rollercoaster, and for another stomach-lurching moment, I thought we were going down.

We locked eyes, his aflame with fear and rage. He kicked out, hitting my thigh, causing me to swing again. My strength was ebbing. Another kick like that, and he’d knock me off the skid.

Hand over hand, I moved away from him. Then I switched my handhold and turned around, eying the other skid, opposite me, about seven or eight feet away.

I looked back at my attacker. He gained hold of the rifle, pointing it in my direction.

I jackknifed my legs and swung, hard and fast, like a gymnast getting ready for her dismount.

Gunfire crackled behind me.

I eyed the opposite skid—

—and let go.

The brief moment of weightlessness, soaring through the air under the chopper, seemed to play out in super-slow motion.

I felt the wind, cold and sharp, invading every pore on my body. Heard the rotors and the shots, impossibly loud but surprisingly easy to ignore. Stared up at the blue steel underbelly of the helicopter as my body became parallel to the fuselage. Waited for my legs to hit the other skid, waited so long that I had plenty of time to second-guess my aim, sure I’d missed my mark, sure I’d plummet to the ocean where I’d shatter my body and drown.

But then my knees found the opposite skid, my legs bending over it, my hands reaching up and locking on.

Before I could celebrate, I caught a hot burn across my shoulder, like I’d been touched with a branding iron.

Shot.

I’d been shot.

I turned around, still able to hold on, facing the man who shot me. He had one hand on the opposite skid, the other on the rifle, pointing at me.

He was too far away for me to kick him, but, incredibly, I noticed I still had my cross-body purse hanging from my shoulder.

Hanging from one hand, I pulled the purse strap off my shoulder and made a quick slipknot around my ankle.

He fired, bullets breaking to my right.

I swung at him, kicking out my legs.

My handbag continued forward on its strap, and hit him right where I was aiming—square in the nose.

He cried out through closed teeth, the sound driven away in the whipping wind, and his grip broke. He followed his assault rifle into the water.

From this height, it was like hitting concrete. He wouldn’t be swimming back to shore.

The wind was slamming against me so hard it was difficult to breathe, to think, and for a moment all I could do was hold on and wait for the helicopter to stop its roll and pitch.

I’d only seen one other man at the house with Julianne, the skinny guy from the pool. Since I didn’t recognize the guy who had just gone into the Sound, Skinny was probably inside with Julianne, along with the pilot.

I pivoted my hands, swung my legs over the opposite skid and pulled myself into a sitting position. Then I wound my purse back over my shoulder, simultaneously checking my wound. Barely a nick, not even worth a stitch.

I was banking on my hunch that the second armed man would be focused on the door his buddy had just exited. It took most people a moment to recover from something as traumatic as watching a human being plunge to his death. I’d put in countless hours to shorten my own reaction time.

I felt the door open above me.

Apparently someone else had shortened his reaction time as well.

I saw the gun barrel first, but instead of putting a foot on the skid to gain balance and see what he was shooting, this guy just pulled the trigger.

Even in the roar of the wind and the rotors, the crack of the rifle was deafening. I had no place to go, nowhere to run, and bracing yourself against gunfire was impossible. If he hit me, it would hurt, and I’d fall to my death. Or maybe it would kill me instantly. Either way, I had no defense.

But luck continued to be on my side. The man fired eight rounds, none of them even coming close.

I grabbed the rifle barrel. It was hot as a stove, and in the back of my mind I was aware of my palm burning. But I had a lot of practice ignoring the somatic reflex and hung on tight, shifting my body to the side to get out of the way in case he pulled the trigger again, tugging with all my strength.

Like the first man, Skinny had the gun strapped around his shoulder, so when I pulled, I didn’t just get the weapon. He came with it.

I released the searing barrel and let the whole package fall. I didn’t wait to see him hit the water. Instead, I climbed to the outside of the skid and lifted myself into the passenger compartment behind the cockpit. I pulled the door closed behind me.

The cabin was separated from the crew’s compartment, and the first thing that struck me was how quiet the space was inside. I could still hear the blades making the classic whump whump sound, in fact it was still far too loud to carry on a normal conversation, but thanks to the trauma my ears had suffered and heavy soundproofing, the noise barely registered. Three leather seats lined each wall, three facing forward and three back, each complete with a headset hanging above.

Julianne was slumped in the middle seat, her vacant eyes suggesting she might have had a little extra medication for the journey, or perhaps whatever they’d given her earlier was fully kicking in.

She opened her eyes halfway, and I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

“What … how did you do that?”

“A little training, and a whole lot of fearing for my life. You ready to get out of here?”

“How?”

It was a good question.

Process. Evaluate. Segregate. Then take control of the situation.

The sun shifted through the windows, the pilot turning the craft around, heading back to the mansion. I touched the wall between passengers and pilot, soundproofing material backed with steel. A check for parachutes, weapons, or anything else I might use came up empty.

To get to the cockpit, I would have to climb back out of the craft and access a separate door, a door that would be locked. Not the best plan. But I couldn’t wait for the craft to land. No doubt the pilot had used his radio to arrange for a welcome party to greet me.

And by greet I meant kill.

I finished scanning the compartment, spotting speakers but no cameras, and then I brought my attention back to Julianne.

My assignment was to get her out of this mess, unharmed.

I’d get her out. But the unharmed part probably wasn’t going to happen.

A dip in altitude and a glance out the window told me we were approaching the mansion, the bay where it nestled already in sight. I had to make my move soon, or I wouldn’t get to make it at all.

“You got shot,” she said, pointing an unsteady hand at my shoulder.

“Just a little bit.”

I grabbed the bottom cushion of the seat opposite me and pulled. The Velcro holding it in place made a ripping sound, and it detached. I ripped another free then released Julianne’s seat belt.

“What are you doing?” Her words came out in a slow ooze.

I didn’t answer. After the sound of the Velcro and her muttered question, no doubt the pilot was listening over the intercom and would be wondering the same thing. I didn’t have much time before he figured it out.

My heart hammered hard enough to break a rib.

I grasped the door handle and shoved it open. I moved quickly, not only hoping to catch the pilot off guard, but Julianne, too. Even in her state, she would resist if given the chance.

Hell, I was resisting it myself.

Holding the seat cushions by their built-in straps, I pulled Julianne out of her seat and looped her left arm around my shoulder and my right arm around her waist. I needed the perfect moment. Low enough so the impact didn’t injure us, but not so close to shore we hit bottom. Or worse, land.

“What are you doing?” she repeated.

When we descended to thirty feet, the beach coming up fast, I made my move. Scooping in a deep breath, I held Julianne tight against my body and jumped.

She screamed all the way down.

“There will be times when you must work with other operatives,” The Instructor said. “Rely on your counterpart to put his mission first, always, and you do the same. As long as you share the same goal, you don’t need to worry about trust.”

The water hit my feet first, slapping them hard, the force shuddering up my legs and through my spine. Cold enveloped my body and closed over my head. Moments after we submerged, I lost Julianne.

I was only under for a few seconds, just enough time to stop my downward trajectory and fight my way to the surface, but it felt like forever.

It felt like I was going to die.

I almost—almost—freaked out, but peeking through the water, eyes stinging, I could see the sun glinting off the waves above me, and my arms and legs scrambled hard and fast, like I was crawling up out of a grave.

When my head broke the surface, I gasped too soon. Salt water filled my mouth, making me gag and cough. Above, the helicopter blades continued to beat out their rhythm.

Julianne’s blond head broke the surface just two feet away. She stared with panicked eyes. Reaching out, she clawed at me like a frightened kitten.

I grabbed her hands and did my best to control her, keeping us both afloat with a scissors kick. I knew how to swim well enough, and once I got myself beyond the terror of being plunged into water, I could do okay. But that didn’t make it easy. Julianne’s grabbing and thrashing made keeping my own fear in check more challenging.

When panicked, a drowning swimmer can pull down anyone attempting a rescue. If this kept up, I would have to dive deep, forcing her to choose between holding onto me or self-preservation. Once she let go, I would be able to secure her with a cross chest carry.

I preferred it wouldn’t go that far. I’d drowned once before and didn’t care to risk repeating the experience.

“Julianne, I have you. It’s all right.” I looked straight into her panicked blue eyes and kept repeating the words. Finally she focused, and I seemed to break through.

I caught sight of a seat cushion carried on the waves, too far away to justify the effort to fetch it. Instead I placed Julianne’s hands on my shoulders, so I could perform a tired swimmer’s assist.

“Lean back and float.”

Miraculously she did as I said, her legs coming up on either side of me. Moving my arms and legs in a modified breast stroke, I pushed us both toward shore.

When I finally touched sand, my muscles were so fried I wasn’t sure I could walk. We emerged from the water and limped up on a strip of land flanked by a crowded, summertime beach and a waterside restaurant, its parking lot nearly empty in the hours between lunch and dinner.

Julianne leaned against me, her steps uneven as we wound through swimmers and sunbathers scattered along the beach’s edge. People eyed her dripping clothes, but no one spoke or tried to help.

Overhead, the helicopter hovered high in the sky, its blades still beating staccato. No doubt the pilot had seen us come out of the water. Hawk Nose and whatever men he had left would be descending on the beach soon. We needed to be gone when they arrived.

I dipped a hand in the purse still slung diagonally across my chest and brought out my phone.

After locating a sign proclaiming the beach’s rules, I texted the name to the number Jacob had given me.

I sure as hell hoped Morrissey was close. If he didn’t arrive soon, we’d have to make a run for it and hope there was a train station nearby. At least I had the cash Jacob had stashed in the purse.

“You … threw me out of a helicopter,” Julianne said. Her tone was belligerent.

“It was the only way.”

“I’m sure there were other ways. There had to be other ways.”

“There weren’t.”

“You’re crazy.” She yanked her arm away and stumbled on her own for a few steps.

I caught up, grabbing the crook of her arm.

“I’m here to help you.”

“Get the hell away from me.”

“Those men weren’t working for a modeling agency, Julianne,” I said. “You were right to be afraid of them.”

“You threw me out of a helicopter, you crazy bitch.”

Standing there with her hands fisted by her side, she reminded me of how young she actually was. And how stupid. But I couldn’t be too angry. After all, as many mistakes as she’d made, I was still about half a dozen up at her age.

“Those men are human traffickers, Julianne. Ever hear of sexual slavery?”

She shook her head.

“They sell girls. They were planning to sell you.”

“What?”

“You think normal modeling agents carry guns around? They’re going to sell you to some rich asshole overseas, where you’ll be raped and killed.”

Her eyes went out of focus. She stammered something I couldn’t decipher.

“What are you on?” I asked, squinting into her eyes. “What did they give you?”

“Leave me alone.”

Her pupils looked normal. From the slightly slurred speech, and the lack of coordination, I guessed it was something in the diazepam family, Valium, maybe Xanax.

“Julianne, you have to listen to me and do whatever I say. We’re not safe here.”

“If you don’t leave me alone, I’m gonna start screaming.”

I saw her take a deep breath. Screaming would draw attention, which would draw Hawk Nose.

I raised my hand and slapped her, hard, wet palm against wet cheek.

Her eyes went wide.

“I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe me, or you’re confused, or the drugs are clouding your head. These are dangerous men, Julianne. You’re in trouble, and if you don’t do exactly what I say, when I say it, I’ll knock out every one of your teeth, and then any chance you might have at a modeling career will be gone. Got it?”

She nodded quickly. “I … I …”

“Shut up and come with me.”

I took her by the hand and led her into an overpriced gift shop in the beach parking lot. After spending a minute working the rolled up fifty dollar bill out of my purse lining, I bought each of us a Red Bull and ordered Julianne to drink hers. They didn’t have first aid kits, and the bandages they sold were too small for my wound, but they had the next best thing—super glue. I dripped half a tube onto the bullet burn, effectively stopping the bleeding. It was ugly, but effective.

The limo pulled up just as we walked back outside.

Morrissey lowered the window. “I think everyone east of Oyster Bay saw you jump out of the helicopter. Cops will be here any second.” He eyed my shoulder. “Are you bleeding?”

“I was. I took care of it.”

“Is she?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

I pulled on the door handle. It was locked.

“Open the goddamn door, Morrissey.”

“Are you sure she isn’t hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Julianne mumbled.

The door unlocked. I pushed Julianne into the back seat of the car and slipped in beside her. Morrissey hit the gas, flattening us against leather. I fastened my safety belt and made sure Julianne did the same. The air conditioning raised goose bumps on my nearly naked skin.

We wound along twisting, tree-lined streets dotted with quaint Victorians that probably cost half as much as my apartment building back in Chicago. I spotted a dark blue van turn onto the street behind us and caught a glimpse of Hawk Nose behind the wheel.

They had automatic weapons. If we got stuck in traffic, we were dead.

“You spot ‘em?” I asked Morrissey.

“Yeah. See the bar back there?”

I glanced at a leather-covered compartment just to the right of Julianne’s footspace.

“I stashed something in the ice bucket for you.”

I opened the little cubicle. Tucked into the insulated bin was a Glock 22. Fifteen .40 rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber.

Julianne made a mewing sound in the back of her throat.

“Hold on.” Morrissey swerved across traffic and onto a ramp leading to the expressway. Tires squealed and horns honked.

I glanced out the back window in time to see the van complete the same risky maneuver.

“You didn’t shake them.”

“I see that.” Morrissey’s tone was dry, as calm and still as I’d noted when I’d first seen him outside the hotel.

He drove on, a mile, two, five humming by under the tires, Hawk Nose and his boys still following.

I held the gun in my lap, my index finger stretched along the side of the trigger guard, thinking. So many parts of this assignment didn’t add up. So many details didn’t make sense. A whole house on Long Island Sound and only one girl loaded into the helicopter? At least five highly-trained and armed men to watch over her? Pornocopia central but no one laying a finger on her?

After I’d jumped with Julianne, things must have gotten immeasurably messy for The Bradford and Sims Modeling Agency. They had no idea who I was, who I worked for. The smart move would be to cut their losses, wipe down their rented house and disappear, not go on a high speed chase to … do what? Recover one girl? Or erase three witnesses while potentially creating many more?

The whole thing seemed foolhardy.

“Who are these guys?” I asked Morrissey.

He shrugged a shoulder. “I know as much as you.”

“Haven’t you been on this case for a while?”

“Working for the car service, not the modeling agency.” He accelerated, weaving through a caravan of slower moving cars. “I do what I’m asked, just like you.”

My turn to nod. And seeing that I’d already delivered Julianne to Morrissey, my part of the operation was over.

Not that now would be a convenient time to take my leave.

“Where are you taking her?”

“Somewhere safe.”

I sensed Julianne’s glance from Morrissey to me. I met her eyes. “It’s going to be all right.”

“How do I know that?”

“We’re the good guys. We were assigned to protect you.”

“Protect me? You threw me out of a helicopter.”

“I did it in a protective way.”

She eyed me as if I was crazy and she was afraid it would rub off. I thought once more about Jacob’s orders, that she not be harmed in any way.

Was this really human trafficking? Or something else?

“Who is your father?” I asked her.

“What?”

“Your dad. Who is he?”

Some of the fear went away, replaced by anger. “It doesn’t matter.”

I had lived up to my end of the op. I had no control over what happened to her from here on out, and I had no business knowing anything more. Any curiosity I felt, any sympathy I had for this girl, were meaningless to the mission. So rather than push it, I clammed up and turned my attention back to the men chasing us.

The green whipping past the windows fell away to shopping centers, and finally, industry. Ahead, the Manhattan skyline shivered in the glare of the afternoon sun like a mirage.

I heard a pop. The car lurched and skidded.

I threw an arm over Julianne, forcing her down.

“Are they shooting at us?” she squealed.

Morrissey regained control, but the car shuddered and bucked with each rotation of the punctured tire.

Ahead, a sign directed us to the Queens Midtown Tunnel. Morrissey took the turn.

I couldn’t believe it.

“Tell me you’re not heading into the city with these guys on our tail.”

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You have a better idea?”

This chase along the expressway was one thing. Once we were in the city, traffic would be slow, sometimes standing still. What would prevent Hawk Nose and his boys from walking up to the limo and taking a shot?

“Yeah, drive somewhere else. Unless you want to make us a slow-moving target.”

“I get the idea that you can move pretty fast when you want to.”

“What are you planning?”

“I’ll take care of the guys behind us. You have the girl at Columbus Circle at six o’clock.”

I didn’t ask how he was going to take care of them. I had a feeling he’d find a way, and that I’d know what action I had to take when the moment came.

We moved through the EZ Pass toll and plunged into the tunnel.

Traffic moved steadily in two Manhattan-bound lanes. The air held the odor of trapped exhaust. The shiny, cream colored ceiling reflected headlights, their glare adding to the artificial lighting and neon-bright speed limit reminders every hundred feet. There was a cacophony of horn honking, helpful New Yorkers trying to tell us we had a flat, as if the sparks being thrown off the bare rim weren’t obvious enough.

“Hold on and be ready to release your seat belts.”

Julianne’s fingers circled my free hand and clenched. I braced my legs wide.

The Town Car’s wheel screeched, metal on pavement. The drivers around us fell back, apparently not wanting to get too close. Only the van stayed glued a few feet behind our bumper, close enough for Hawk Nose to glower at me, close enough to take a shot.

So why didn’t he? He might hit the girl?

Morrissey slowed the car and inched toward the center, straddling lanes. Horns echoed off concrete. Surrounding cars fell back farther. A few more seconds passed.

He hit the brakes and the car skidded sideways.

Tires screeched all around, the sound amplified in the tunnel.

“Now. Go.”

Before the car had reached a complete stop, Morrissey was moving. He pulled an assault rifle from under the seat and slid across to the passenger door.

I was moving too, pushing Julianne in front of me, over the seat, out the door. The cars ahead kept moving down the tunnel, leaving both lanes free and clear. I grabbed Julianne’s arm and ran. The soles of my bare feet slapped pavement. The muggy air smelled of exhaust and burned rubber. Angry voices and horns behind us gave way to bursts of gunfire and screams.

My heart was a hummingbird trapped in my chest. With all the training I’d had, the sound of gunfire was still a viscerally frightening thing, especially at my back. I was sure it was much worse for Julianne. To her credit, she kept up as best she could, her sandals pounding the concrete behind me, her breath coming fast and rhythmic.

I wasn’t sure how long one man could hold off Hawk Nose’s entourage. In a firefight, numerical superiority usually won out. I had to wonder if we’d see Morrissey again, but I pushed those thoughts from my mind and kept running. Finally I picked up the faint smell of fresh air, the first sign that we were near the end.

An explosion shook the tunnel around us.

Julianne screamed.

I looked back, over my shoulder, back to where we’d left Morrissey. The tiled walls and shiny ceiling reflected the orange glow of flame. The smoke came fast, like an acrid thunderhead.

Unlike in the movies, gunfire doesn’t easily cause car explosions, but explosives wired to the gas tank could. They also caused one hell of a traffic mess when detonated in a tunnel. And one hell of an emergency response that criminal types would be eager to avoid.

I had a feeling Morrissey was going to come out of this just fine.

By the time Julianne and I reached the end of the tunnel, sirens echoed from everywhere and the smell of burning car coated the back of my throat and infused my hair. I pulled her up on the walkway to the side of the two traffic lanes and concealed the Glock along my leg. We made it to the mouth of the tunnel and walked out onto the streets of Manhattan. The area was swarming with cop cars, and I jammed the pistol into my tiny bag.

We walked to Grand Central station, stopping at a Banana Republic in the terminal to pick up a dress to pull over my bikini, a change of clothing for Julianne and gym shoes for both of us. The clothing wasn’t pricey, but the purchase still took most of the money Jacob had stashed in the purse. Two subway fares took the rest.

“Why are we going to Columbus Circle?” Julianne asked.

I thought of the glorified roundabout marking the southwest corner of Central Park. It offered continually flowing traffic, access to streets leading in several directions, and the cover of crowded sidewalks. A decent place for a hand off. “It’s just a meeting place. We’re trying to get you somewhere safe.”

If I thought it was hot on the streets, I was mistaken. Descending into the subway tunnels felt like burrowing into humidity hell. Exhaust and the odor of hot humanity swam in the air. I heard the click of heels and rumble of voices, nothing but ordinary subway sounds.

We moved into a wide area of red quarry tile rimmed with scarred wooden benches. Live music echoed off walls and floors, zamponas, charango, guitars, and percussion, a distinctly South American sound, maybe Peruvian. I’d only been to Peru once, but I’d spent significant time in Columbia, Brazil, and Venezuela, the last time I remembered seeing a Tec-9, until today.

I had to wonder …

I led Julianne down steps and through platforms only to cross over tracks and double-back. The third time we passed the Andean band, she spoke up. “Are we lost?”

“I’m making sure we weren’t followed.”

She glanced around, as if the bogeyman himself might jump out from the nearby newspaper stand.

“Were we?”

“No.”

She let out a long breath, but still looked far from relieved. “What you said back at the beach, was it true? Were they really going to sell me as a sex slave?”

I nodded, although my doubts were adding up fast. Julianne was pretty and blond, but there was simply no way a criminal enterprise could make enough money selling one girl. Bradford and Sims was no modeling agency, their little porn operation aside. But I was becoming less and less sure they dealt in human trafficking, either.

“Well, thanks. I know I didn’t seem like I appreciated you saving me at first, but I do. I was just a little, you know, shaken up.”

She was sounding better, clearer. The combination of caffeine and getting shot at was working against the drugs in her system.

“Understandable.” I gave her a smile and led her past the band one last time and up a sloping ramp toward the S train that would take us to Times Square.

“Who are you, anyway?” Julianne asked, once the band was far enough behind us to hear one another speak.

“Not important.”

“It is to me.”

“Then just think of me as a friend.”

She frowned, a tiny crease forming on her lineless forehead. “I … I don’t have a good track record with friends.”

I knew the feeling. “Okay, how about a bodyguard? I was sent to keep you safe.”

“You and the driver.”

“Yes.”

“Sent? By who?”

I said nothing.

“Please?”

“I shouldn’t have told you that much.”

Not that my explanation would hurt anything, but I’d learned, when dealing with civilians in the field, it was better to keep things simple and them at arms’ length. I was already starting to like Julianne more than I should.

“If someone is looking out for me, isn’t it better that I know who?”

The platform was crowded, the rush hour stampede starting to heat up. The S train ran between Grand Central Station and Times Square every fifteen minutes. We wouldn’t have long to wait, but I still felt as if it couldn’t come fast enough.

“I’ve never really had anyone who has looked out for me before. Not really. Not since my mom died.”

I didn’t react, not outwardly anyway. Inwardly I was struck again by how many similarities there were between the two of us.

“I had friends and stuff, but no one ever seemed to be there when I needed them, you know?”

“You’re trying to manipulate me.”

She had the nerve to give me a little smile. “Maybe.”

“It’s not working.”

“My mom used to love me. At least I remember thinking she did. She died when I was sixteen.”

I focused on the rumble of the train approaching. I had been ten when I lost both parents. At least Julianne still had her father.

“I’ve kind of been on my own after that.”

“What about your dad?”

“He’s not important.”

I didn’t believe her. There was more to this than human trafficking. If her dad was a VIP, like Jacob said, this could be a kidnapping for ransom. Or leverage. Take a senator’s daughter, and you own him. That could be useful for certain corporations. Or certain foreign governments.

The train rolled in, the sound too loud for words. Doors opened, releasing crowds of commuters, then we stepped on and they sucked closed behind us. I stood, holding onto a pole.

Julianne stood next to me. I scanned the crowd around us, looking for potential trouble. We remained quiet until we emerged from the 42nd Street subway station and joined the steamy, neon hubbub of Times Square.

She broke the silence. “Being alone, not knowing who you can trust, it’s not fun. You don’t know what that feels like.”

Actually, I did. Not that I was going to share the dark times of my life with Julianne James.

But I could see her point.

Everyone needed someone to rely on. I had Kaufmann, the parole officer who’d been there for me when my life fell apart at age fourteen. He still checked in with me from time to time. He had no clue about the nature of my real job, my real life. But just knowing he cared made all the difference.

“Tell me why you’re helping me,” Julianne said, “and I’ll leave you alone.”

I let out a deep breath. When it came down to it, I really didn’t know much, and Jacob hadn’t said anything about keeping what little I did know from Julianne. “Your father sent us, sort of.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Your father pulled some strings to make sure you were safe.”

“You think that’s funny?”

I shook my head. “Listen, I don’t know the history between you and your father. You don’t want him involved in your life, take it up with him.”

“My father left my mother before I was born,” she said, voice flat. “I’ve never met him. Whoever sent you, it wasn’t him.”

“You are a weapon,” The Instructor said. “You are a tool of your government. You’ll have to make calls in the field, snap decisions, but don’t let that seduce you into believing you decide anything. You may turn down an assignment, but once you accept, your job is to carry out orders, no more. Your handler will aim you, fire you, and it is up to you to make sure the bullet hits its mark.”

I let her words sink in the rest of the walk to the health club and focused on my usual security precautions, doubling back, watching for tails.

The place was called Stretchers, a nationwide chain exclusively for women. I didn’t have my membership card, but I gave them my fake name and address and they confirmed my ID on their computer. Julie waited in the lobby, and I popped into the locker room and opened my rented locker. From the duffle bag I took a clean driver’s license and a credit card in the name of Heidi Orland, a thousand in cash, an S&W tactical folding knife, and a spare charger for my cell. I still had Morrissey’s Glock, but I figured I might have to return it, so I added a compact Ruger .380 LCP of my own and two extra mags, cramming everything into my purse until it was so stuffed it refused to close. Then I secured the locker and led Julie to the nearest hotel.

Once we were inside the room and I’d searched the place for bugs using an app on my phone, I allowed my thoughts to turn back to what she’d told me.

“So you don’t know your father.”

“Never met him, have no idea what he even looks like.”

Julianne stepped to the floor-to-ceiling window. Crossing her arms over her chest, she looked down on Times Square. She looked small, lonely. Behind her, the clock on the Paramount Building read four o’clock, a half hour slow.

“My name isn’t even Julianne. It’s Julie. I just thought Julianne sounded more like a model.”

I attempted to run a hand through my hopelessly tangled hair. While I had recovered from my earlier desire to shave my head, as soon as this operation was over, I was definitely getting the mess cut short enough to keep it out of my eyes.

“What do I call you? I’m guessing your name isn’t Claire.”

No harm in telling her my codename. “Chandler.”

“Chandler. That’s cool. Like on that show Friends.”

I preferred comparison to the dead mystery writer, but I supposed it didn’t matter.

Normal, not-a-model Julie turned from the window and looked at me.

“So now what, Chandler?”

“Nothing has changed. My assignment is to make sure you’re safe, whether your father is behind it or not doesn’t really matter. Okay?”

She gave a little nod, but she looked less than convinced.

“You’re going to be fine. I’ll make sure of it. I promise.” I gestured toward the bathroom. “Now why don’t you get cleaned up?”

As soon as I heard water hiss through pipes, I called Jacob. We engaged in our usual security dance. By the time I was able to speak, I felt like crawling out of my skin with impatience.

“Who is the VIP, Jacob?”

He paused for a moment. “I hear the extraction didn’t go as smoothly as we hoped.”

“She’s here. She’s unhurt.”

“But you left a nasty traffic snarl in the Queens Midtown Tunnel. The media is calling it a terrorist attack.”

“Couldn’t be helped. Who’s the VIP?” I repeated.

Another pause. “All I was told is that he’s the girl’s father.”

I was getting used to Jacob’s altered voice, but there were times I still wished I could hear his natural inflections, or better yet, look into his eyes, gage his expressions.

“She says she never knew her father, insists it couldn’t be him.”

He paused, then said, “Interesting.”

“That’s all you have to say? Interesting?”

“Does she have any ideas?”

“She says she has no one, and I think she’s telling the truth.”

I went on, filling him in on Julie’s real name and my suspicions that our fake modeling agency was also a fake when it came to the human trafficking business.

“You think they’re some kind of intelligence operation?”

“It seems so. Several are South American. I’m guessing Venezuelan, although they all might be mercs.”

“And that means there’s more to Julie than the fact that she’s daddy’s little girl,” Jacob said, summing up my thoughts.

“Right. I might have something on the Bradford and Sims Agency. I took the memory card from one of their cameras. It got wet, but if it works I’ll upload it to the dropbox as soon as I can.”

Jacob and I often communicated via a series of secure Internet drop boxes. It was a convenient system for trading various types of files no matter where I was in the world.

“Even if it’s damaged, I might be able to recover the data.”

“I’m not sure anything useful is on the card. But at the very least, you’ll be able to ogle some topless photos of me.”

“You weren’t kidding about the strip club, huh? I don’t know how you find the time.”

I smiled despite myself, and it felt good. I might never meet Jacob in person, but that didn’t change the fact that we seemed to ‘get’ each other, important when my life depended on his communication skills and willingness to watch my back.

“You sure you can’t find out more about this VIP?”

“Chandler …”

“Right. You’ll let me know when you know.” I paused, trying to come up with some other approach we could take. “How about my contact, Morrissey?”

“Morrissey? I have a dossier on him. He’s an experienced field operative. He has a clean record, is reliable, has been working undercover as a driver for a Manhattan car service for about four years. Has provided Uncle Sam with all sorts of intel.”

Four years of driving a car. I thought of his rough hands, his calm and deadly demeanor. I wasn’t sure I really suspected Morrissey of anything—actually I liked him, more than a little—but it never hurt to be thorough. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did a similar background search on me.

Not that he’d find anything. According to government records, Morrissey was undercover. I, on the other hand, didn’t exist.

“Military record?” I asked.

“Nope. Former FBI Recruited by NSA”

That didn’t seem right. Morrissey had combat training. He was a fist, not an ear. Sticking him in a limo service seemed like a waste of his talents.

“What else?” I asked.

“Not much. Parents deceased. Lives in an apartment on Staten Island.”

“Previous operations?”

“Classified.”

“I thought classified doesn’t apply to you, Jacob.”

“Are you asking me to dig?”

“Indulge me, will you?”

“You have your assignment, Chandler. Deliver the girl to Morrissey unhurt. The rest isn’t your concern.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll feel better.”

For a moment I wondered if we’d been cut off. Then Jacob cleared his throat.

“I’ll see what I can find.”

We ended the call. Jacob was right. Worrying about this was not my job. I was trained to follow orders, a weapon to be deployed. I’d saved Julie from the fake modeling agency and now I was to turn her over and walk away.

The rest didn’t matter.

I had suspected from the beginning that I was given this assignment precisely because my teen years were similar to Julie’s. Because of those similarities, this didn’t feel like any other mission to me. I cared about what happened to her, but that didn’t mean I could allow my personal feelings to skew my judgment.

If there was reason to worry, Jacob would find it and let me know.

The drone of the hairdryer ended. Time being short, a shower for me would have to wait. I focused on accessorizing, strapping the folding knife to the back of my left thigh, under the dress. On my right thigh, I donned a Velcro holster for the Ruger. A brush through my tangle of hair, and I was out the door.

Even without my taking time for a shower, we were pressed to upload the camera images to the dropbox and make it to Columbus Circle. I would have preferred to walk, since it was much easier to spot tails by foot, especially in rush hour, but since we were short on time, I opted for a subway ride to Lincoln Center. Backtracking one avenue and four blocks, we reached our rendezvous spot.

I checked my phone. Twenty minutes before six, just as I’d planned.

Jacob hadn’t called back.

I focused on my surroundings. I hadn’t picked up any evidence that we were being followed during our walk, and I didn’t spot any shadows now. I smelled exhaust, hotdogs from a nearby food cart, and the tang of horse manure wafting from the park. A woman passed by, the scent of some sweet vanilla coffee concoction trailing in her wake. Behind us, a small group of men offering pedicab rides through the park spoke in broken English, trying to talk tourists into paying a small fortune for an evening jaunt in the half-bicycle, half-cart contraptions. Horns honked and cabbies yelled, typical New York City on a summer evening.

When I spied the Town Car, my nerves surged.

He was early.

The car swung to the curb and Morrissey stepped out. He was tall and lean and calmly dangerous, and I felt that same little burst of edginess mixed with lust as when I’d first met him this morning. This time he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, and I caught a flash of ice blue eyes that just added to his allure. Like the perfect chauffeur, he climbed out and circled the vehicle.

“Nice car,” I said. “This one rigged to blow, too?”

One side of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile. “You did a good job.”

“You, too. Want your Glock back?”

“Sure. At least until the next time you’d like to borrow it.”

He stepped close to me to shield the exchange from onlookers. He smelled of Giorgio Armani For Men’s Acqua Di Gio.

At least someone had gotten a chance to properly clean up.

I took the gun from my purse. When he pulled me into a hug, I placed it in his hand.

“Take good care of her, okay?”

He brushed my fingers as he took it from me, lingering a moment too long, then he slipped the weapon into a holster on his left side.

“She’ll be safe. And if you need to get in touch with me, you have my card.”

“I do?”

Morrissey’s hand slowly made its way down my side, then up under my dress. He slid a business card into my thigh holster. His breath on my neck was hot, and for a brief moment I could practically feel his lips on my bare skin.

He pulled away, then glanced at Julie and opened the back door. “Ready?”

We exchanged a quick hug, her grip a lot tighter than mine.

“Thanks,” Julie said. “For everything.”

“You bet,” I told her. “It’s all going to be okay from here on out.”

When she climbed into the limo, Morrissey shut the door behind her and circled to the driver’s door.

“I hope we get to work together again,” he said.

“Me, too.” But I actually had play on my mind.

On impulse, I took out my cell phone, miming making a call. Instead, I took a quick picture of him.

It was natural to be horny as hell after a mission, especially after almost being killed. It was an affirmation-of-life kind of reaction. If I wasn’t going to get laid tonight, I could at least have a photo to get myself off. And fantasy sex was safer than real sex, especially in my profession.

He smiled, then slipped behind the wheel and pulled into traffic.

I watched them follow the flow around the circle and head uptown on Broadway. My role in this was finished, another assignment completed successfully. Soon I would be on my way back to Chicago or on a plane bound for who-the-hell-knew. My thoughts would be on other things, my focus riveted to threats from other quarters. I would file this experience into its compartment in the back of my mind and go on with my life.

The cell phone buzzed against my hip.

I answered.

“I need to speak to Ursula,” Jacob’s electronic voice said.

The code signified urgency, and I could feel a dose of adrenaline surge into my bloodstream.

“I’m afraid she has already left for the hospital.”

“You’ve met with the contact?”

“He just took Julie.” I peered at the cars flooding around Columbus Circle and up Broadway.

“Damn. He’s early.”

“What is it?”

“You were right to have me check him, Chandler. He’s not Morrissey.”

Oh, shit.

“What do you mean?” I knew the suspicion was originally mine, but Jacob’s words carried a shock wave anyway.

“Morrissey’s body was found—or at least part of it was—a week ago in New Jersey. He was mutilated, no face, no hands, so we didn’t identify him right away.”

“But you’re sure it’s him?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t ask how or when. Worrying about that was someone else’s job. “So this guy, who is he?” I was already walking, rimming Columbus Circle, waving my hand for a cab.

Goddamn rush hour.

“We have no idea. Can you describe him?”

“I can do even better.”

I forwarded the photo to Jacob, pleased that being horny might have actually come in handy for once.

“Hmm, he’s cute.” Odd thing for Jacob to say. “I’ll run it through facial recognition software. Hold on.”

I squinted into the distance, breaking into a jog. The limo was still in sight—thank you bumper-to-bumper—but getting further away. As I ran, I fished the business card out of my knife holster.

No name on the card. No phone number either. Just a generic Hotmail address.

I took another scan of the roundabout, searching for a vacancy light in the flood of cabs. A green SUV caught my attention. Rental plates. Five men inside. Not South American, maybe of Middle Eastern origin. But it wasn’t the vehicle or their ethnicity that caught me. It was the intensity behind their eyes, the way they assessed the crowd … just the way I would if I were searching for someone.

Maybe I was being paranoid, but I doubted it.

Keeping my expression neutral, I glanced at the cars beyond, not letting on I’d made them.

“Got a match,” Jacob said after only thirty seconds. Jonathan Kirk. Former special forces. He fell off our radar about a year ago. Apparently he’s been operating without a leash.”

“Merc?” I eyed Broadway, but I’d lost the car.

“Yeah.” Jacob paused, but I could feel what was coming next. “Most recently, he’s been doing wet work.”

“No matter how well you’ve prepared or how thorough you are, sometimes you will make mistakes,” The Instructor said. “The important thing is that you identify the mistake immediately and take steps to salvage the mission. Stay aware, use your brain, your handler, and anything around you to set the operation right. If repair is impossible, cover up your involvement and get out of there.”

I ran, picking and dodging between people on the sidewalk, the phone still pressed to my ear.

“Was Morrissey part of the package?” I asked.

“Yes. Came with the deal.”

A hum rose in my ears. I’d invested myself in protecting Julie, not just because it was my assignment, but because I’d started to care. The possibility that I might have been set up from the beginning to deliver the girl to her death made me grind my teeth.

“Jacob? Are we being used here? Who’s the VIP?”

“You’re thinking Kirk was brought in on purpose?”

“It occurred to me.”

“We don’t have any evidence that Kirk’s working for the VIP. A third party could have intercepted Morrissey before our agency was brought in.”

Of course, Jacob was right. But often playing devil’s advocate could help sort through confusing or complicated situations like this one. I was hoping that strategy would work now, because I was confused as hell.

I kept moving, rimming Columbus Circle, my mind racing as fast as my feet.

“Or Kirk could have taken out Morrissey himself, maybe with the VIP’s blessing.”

When we’d been in the limo, Kirk had a chance to kill Julie and me. But that would have been a mistake. First of all, driving around with two dead chicks in your car wasn’t safe. Second, killing me would have brought a shit storm down on him and whoever controlled him. Better to wait until the heat died down and let me deliver her, thinking the op had ended there.

“He must need her alive,” I said.

“Agreed. Kirk has had sniper training. He could have taken her out without involving you at all. Or you could have been ordered to do it.”

I hesitated. Could I have killed Julie if that was my assignment? Probably not. But there were other female assassins they could have assigned in my place, women who didn’t have a history similar to Julie’s and wouldn’t hesitate to complete the job.

“So why lie to us about the father?”

“It’s the government, Chandler. I think lying is merely the default setting.”

“I don’t like being lied to. Or used.”

Jacob paused for a beat before replying. “I do have one thing. The assignment was routed through the defense department.”

“So the VIP is someone in the Pentagon? Or is it the Pentagon itself?”

“Don’t know. I’m trying to find more.”

And maybe, if I could catch up with Kirk, I could do the same from my end. “Thanks, Jacob.”

“Good luck.”

I stuffed the phone back in my pocket and eyed the streets leading off the circle.

I wanted answers.

I also wanted to make sure Julie was safe.

But apparently I wasn’t the only one looking for her.

The SUV holding the men I’d noticed earlier was just inching onto Broadway.

Cabs clogged the flow of traffic like cholesterol in a fat guy’s bloodstream, but not one had its light on indicating it was for hire. Even if I could flag down a ride, traffic was moving so slowly, I’d never catch the men I’d pegged as Middle Eastern operatives, let alone Kirk. He’d be long gone and so would Julie.

I needed to find another way, and running wasn’t cutting it.

The jingle of a bell caught my ear, followed by a voice speaking heavily accented English.

“Out of the way. Move!”

I spun around just as a bike/cart combination drew even with me, one of the pedicab drivers I’d noticed earlier taking a couple of tourists into the park. I shot out a hand and grabbed the handlebars, wresting the vehicle to a halt.

“Get off,” I said evenly.

He stared at me as if I’d lost my mind.

“Get off. Now.”

I grabbed his left hand and jammed his wrist backward. Using the leverage, I twisted his arm and his whole body moved to the side and off the seat.

“Okay, okay, take it,” he said.

He also held up his wallet. Only in New York.

I released him, climbing onto the seat.

“Hey, you can’t do that, lady!”

The couple in the cart. I’d almost forgotten them.

I shot the man a hard look. He was in his fifties, soft around the middle, with a bulbous nose, sitting next to a woman who had the exact same face, only twenty years older.

“You and your mom get out,” I said. “This is your only warning.”

“You’re stealing this man’s bike! I’m calling the cops!”

“Call them, Walter!” Mom chimed in. “And make a citizen’s arrest!”

Neither got out.

“Your choice.”

I drove the balls of my feet down on the pedals. Pedestrians in the crosswalk scurrying out of the way, I cut across Central Park West and skirted the edge of the circle and onto Broadway.

“Stop!” Walter yelled. “You’re under arrest!”

North of Columbus Circle, Broadway turned into a boulevard, traffic flowing both up and down town. The faux Morrissey had headed uptown, I suspected on his way to the expressway and maybe the Bronx or New Jersey.

I couldn’t let him make it out of Manhattan.

“Tell her to stop, Walter!”

“Stop!”

“Tell her again!”

“Stop!”

“She didn’t hear you! Tell her again!”

“I said stop!”

“My son said stop!”

Ahead, vehicles choked the street, barely moving. Brake lights flared red. I cranked the bike to the right and jumped the curb onto the sidewalk. The bike’s front tire shuddered, and it was all I could do to keep the handle bars steady. The back cart followed, jolting, and the couple let out squawks of surprise.

“She won’t stop, Ma! I told her to stop, but she won’t stop!”

Forcing pedestrians to dive out of the way, I skirted two food carts and bounced off the edge of a trash can.

I regained my balance and thrust down on the pedals with all my strength, gaining speed. The cart rattled behind me. People shouted obscenities and threats in my wake. Heat poured off the concrete in waves, and sweat soon slicked my back and stung the corners of my eyes. My breathing settled into a rhythm, in and out, in and out, in time with the pump of my legs.

“She’s going faster, Walter! Tell her to stop going faster!”

“Stop going faster!”

“Walter!”

“Stop going faster!”

I went faster.

Trump International Hotel and Tower flashed by on my right, the SUV I’d noticed earlier on my left, screaming from the cart behind me. I’d been trained to pick out details, focus on them, isolate them, and as I whipped past the SUV, I could hear the men inside exclaiming excitedly in a language that sounded like Farsi.

They were Iranian? That conjured up all sorts of new questions.

“Tell her again!”

“Stop going faster!”

“Tell her again!”

“Stop going faster! Ma! She’s still going faster!”

“Walter, I’m getting sick!”

“My mother is getting sick!”

I heard the sound of Walter’s mother getting sick.

“My mother got sick all over me!”

I bet those two were a real hoot at home.

A bus shelter loomed ahead. I swerved to the right.

A group of slow walkers blocked the sidewalk.

“Move!” I ordered, but they ambled on, oblivious to the world around them.

Walter’s mother got sick again. From the sounds of it, she’d had a big lunch.

“Please stop! My mother got sick again!”

“On my new outfit!” Walter’s mother wailed.

“She got sick on her new outfit!”

I cut back toward the street. A phone booth came up fast at the edge of the curb.

A phone booth? Who uses phone booths anymore?

I veered hard to the left. Not fast enough. The cart hit the corner and bounced to one side. We careened off the sidewalk and into the street. Car tires squealed. I counter steered. The cart whipped around and sideswiped a tow truck. Drivers shouted through open windows. Something that sounded like weeping came from behind me, and the odor of Walter’s mother’s lunch mixed with the scents of exhaust and hot pavement.

Regaining control of the pedicab, I swung back in the direction of the sidewalk and again jumped back onto the curb. It seemed safer.

A whimper came from the back seat. “Please let us out!”

“I tried.” I barely avoided a line of newspaper boxes.

“I’ll pay you!”

“Walter, I’m going to wet myself!”

“My mother is going to wet herself!”

“Walter, I just wet myself!”

“My mother just wet herself!”

“Walter, I’m going to be sick again!”

“My mother is going to be sick again!”

Walter’s mother got sick again.

“You have to turn around! My mother got sick and lost her dentures!”

I considered pulling my Ruger and killing them both, but lucky for them my purse was out of reach.

I streaked past an electronics store and two outdoor cafes. I couldn’t pick out the Town Car yet, but I had to be gaining on it. Traffic crawled, traffic stopped, traffic crawled again.

There it was.

With all the identical cars clogging the street, I didn’t know why I was so certain this was the one. But my gut reaction had been right so far. It was time I listened.

I stood on the brakes, leaping off the bike and breaking into a sprint, listening to Walter yell behind me, “She stopped, Ma! I made her stop!”

I wove between cars. He probably wasn’t expecting me, and surprise was my best weapon. I ducked behind a produce delivery truck and, grabbing the back door handle, rode its bumper until it halted at the next light.

Then I made my move.

Circling the truck, I stayed in its lee as long as I could. I only had seconds once I emerged. The man I’d known as Morrissey was sharp. Even though I doubted he’d be looking for me, he would be alert, and since I had no weapon beyond surprise, I had to make this count. I needed to get inside that car, and the best way to do that was to make sure his attention was focused front.

The light changed. The truck started inching forward.

Now.

I swung around the truck and landed on pavement, knees flexed, legs already moving. It only took seconds for me to make it to the driver’s door, and I pulled out my phone as I ran.

My phone had been designed for a multitude of functions, and on one corner, the titanium casing tapered to a conical, seemingly harmless nub. Reaching the car, I rapped that nub against the driver’s window, the full force of my blow concentrated on that small point.

The glass shattered, showering tiny pebbles.

His eyes met mine, the first time I’d seen him anything but calm.

I thrust my arm inside to the shoulder, going for his gun.

He grabbed my arm and held. The cars started to move, and he hit the gas.

I scrambled to stay on my feet, trying to keep up, retain my balance, but it moved too fast. I stumbled and fell, my gym shoes dragging along the pavement, their rubber soles getting rapidly eaten away. The edge of the door pressed into my side, making it hard to breathe.

I caught a foothold for just a second and surged forward, smacking him in the nose with a head butt.

He grunted and his grip loosened slightly.

I reached, my fingers hitting Kirk’s left leg, his holster.

I acted quickly, making a grab for the gun, but his recovery was equally fast. His hand closed over mine, wrestling, hitting, prying at my fingers.

I sensed we would hit the car ahead a split second before impact.

The crunch of steel shuddered through my spine. The car jolted to a dead stop. I hit the hot pavement in a roll, breath exploding from my lungs, head smacking hard. My vision exploded in stars. Tires screeched. I heard the Glock skitter, but where it ended up, I couldn’t guess.

A heartbeat and the car door opened, and Kirk came down on top of me.

I struggled for breath.

Kirk’s hands found my neck, my throat. He had my arms pinned under his knees, so I couldn’t reach either of my weapons. Heat enveloped me. His grip was strong, squeezing, closing off my trachea, stopping the flow of blood to my brain, making my vision dim, go dark.

The crack of gunfire exploded in my ears.

Kirk bellowed. His hands released me, and his body lifted from mine.

I gasped, coughed, and gasped again.

A scream shattered the air around me. Not me. Not Kirk.

I forced the darkness back, forced my eyes to see, forced my body to function.

It was Julie. She held the Glock.

She had shot him.

Kirk staggered away from me. Julie raised the gun again but he batted it away, sending it through the air. Then he gripped Julie’s arm, steering her toward the car. He moved awkwardly, each stride jerking, and it was then I noticed the dark glisten drenching one leg of his black trousers.

I pushed up from the street. Pain seared my hands and knees, but I forced it to the background, forced myself to concentrate, adrenaline and training taking over.

Kirk was too focused on Julie and the bullet in his leg to notice me come up fast behind him.

Using the knife edge of my hand, I delivered a sharp blow to the side of his neck, below and slightly in front of his ear. I rotated at the waist, driving all the power I could muster into his carotid artery, jugular vein, and vagus nerve, following through.

His body seized, muscles going rigid, then he slumped forward.

I wasn’t sure if he was unconscious or merely stunned for a few seconds, but either would do. I looped my arm under his and across his back as he crumpled.

“Open the back door.”

Julie stared at me. “Is he … is he dead?”

“Just do it.”

I glanced down Broadway. Although I couldn’t see them, I was sure the Iranians would be here on foot at any moment. Cops too, after the gunshot.

“Unlock the back door. Now.”

She reached in and unlocked it from the inside.

I threw it open and shoved Kirk into the back seat. A quick search of the glove box scored me a handful of zip ties. I used one to secure his wrists in front of him.

He groaned and tried to lift his head, already coming around.

Traffic moved around us, horns blaring from behind, a few idiots even having the nerve to yell obscenities. I tugged my Ruger from the holster and set it on the dashboard. The driver from the car we’d back-ended stepped out onto the street, glimpsed the gun, and climbed back behind the wheel.

I shifted into drive and veered into the parking lane. Steam rose from under our hood, accompanied by the odor of scorched coolant. I doubted the Town Car would be running for long.

Ahead, traffic stopped again.

Iranians and cops would be on us any second. Disappearing was my first priority, getting Julie out of here as fast as we could. But if I hoped to find out what was really going on and why I had been lied to, I would have to take Kirk with us.

I assessed the surrounding cityscape. We weren’t far from Lincoln Center.

“Come on. We’re taking the subway.”

I shoved the car into park and climbed out, pulling Julie with me. Opening the back door, I yanked Kirk to his feet, keeping the gun on his head.

“You, too.”

We made it to the sidewalk, him dragging his feet the whole way.

“Faster, Kirk.”

“She shot me.”

He was gimpy, but he could still walk. I had no sympathy.

“Suck it up, unless you want me to shoot you this time. I won’t aim for your leg.”

“And I thought we liked each other.”

He moved a little faster, grunting as he hobbled, sweat beading on his brow.

I didn’t know if he was working with the men I’d seen in the SUV or not, so I kept my mouth shut. We’d covered about a block when I caught my next glimpse, three of them, running up the sidewalk. They weren’t holding guns, but I saw bulges under their sports coats.

We needed to hurry.

We reached the next crosswalk, the Iranians closing the distance behind us disturbingly fast.

Sirens cut through the air, and a squad rounded the corner, probably sent to check out the disturbance we’d caused. The car stopped just twenty feet from where we stood.

As much as I’d like reinforcements to deal with my Iranian problem, I couldn’t let police complicate my operation, and that included letting them take Kirk to the hospital for his injury or me to jail for the Ruger I had in a death grip.

I eyed Julie. “Quiet, hear?”

To my relief, she nodded.

I circled my arms around Kirk and gazed up at him in obvious adoration, the gun to the back of his head.

“If you signal them in any way, you’re dead.”

He returned my loving smile with one of his own.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I want the cops involved about as much as you do.”

Halfway down the block, the Iranians slowed to a walk, noticed the police car, and then ducked into a bistro with outdoor seating.

The light changed, and the cops passed by.

We continued across the street with the other pedestrians. I kept one arm around Kirk, both helping and steering him, his hands still bound in front of him with the twist tie. We moved quickly, coming as close to a run as Kirk could manage. As soon as the officers drove by the bistro, the Iranians would be back on the street and in pursuit. I had to take advantage of the short delay.

We reached Lincoln Center, rushing by the famous fountain in front of the Metropolitan Opera House without a sideways glance, then plunged down into the oppressive heat of the subway.

I bought three fare cards, and we pushed through the turnstiles. The Iranians had been delayed, but they had to guess we’d make for the train. They would catch up within minutes, maybe seconds. I had to make sure we were not where they expected by the time they came calling.

The Lincoln Center station was accessible to those with disabilities, and while Kirk was still mobile, handrails and ramps made navigating much faster than it would be in some of the less accessible stations. But though we reached the platform in record time, no train was waiting, and I couldn’t detect any rumble to suggest one would be approaching in the next few seconds.

The blood on his leg was obvious, but those who noticed purposely turned their backs to it. I kept a watchful eye out for Good Samaritans. None attempted to get involved.

I needed to find a place to hide. A place the Iranians would be unlikely to expect me to go. A place I could extract some answers.

I steered Kirk and Julie into a men’s restroom.

The place smelled like piss, mildew and those sweet pink deodorizing cakes that never really seemed to work. The bank of urinals and sinks weren’t being used. Dipping low, I noticed one pair of feet under a door. I directed Julie into the large stall on the end and pushed Kirk in after her. After depositing Kirk on the toilet, I flattened him to the tile wall behind him, my forearm snug up under his chin, and waited for the lone man to finish up and leave.

Kirk wisely stayed silent, watching me. Although his skin was pale and sweat beaded on his brow, he was still giving off that calm, deadly vibe.

Too bad for him I was now immune to his charm. Trying to kill me tended to dampen my ardor.

I held the gun against his forehead. When I actually decided to end him, I would opt for the garrote in my purse strap, but there was nothing quite like the barrel of a gun to convey you mean business.

“You killed Morrissey.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then who did?”

“My employers. I was brought in to take his place, rendezvous with you and get the girl. I’m just the hired help.”

“Who are you working for?”

“An interested party from Moscow.”

I narrowed my eyes on his. “Try Iran.”

“The Iranians? I wondered how long it would take them to catch up. Have the Venezuelans rejoined the party yet?”

I hadn’t seen Hawk Nose and his boys since the tunnel incident, but I felt no need to answer. Knowledge was power, as they say, and right now Kirk had all the answers. I wasn’t about to let him start asking the questions.

“You expect me to believe you don’t work for them?”

“I work for whoever pays. Sometimes it’s even Uncle Sam. Today it happens to be the Russians.”

“Then how did they find us? Manhattan is a big place.”

“Who? The Iranians or the Venezuelans?”

I gave him a cold stare.

“You want me to guess?” he asked.

“Give it your best shot.”

“The Venezuelans have a passion for police scanners.”

I thought of the scanner I’d heard at the house on Long Island. Great. If they were using the police scanner to find us, after our street shooting, they might just be on their way, too.

“And the Iranians?”

He gave a shrug. “If they found me, my best guess is they had the same intel that you do. Eyes on the street. Or maybe in the sky.”

Satellites. I liked that answer a little better. If it was true, we could lose them in the maze that was the New York subway system.

“How about the Russians?”

“They don’t have anyone else in the game. I’m it. That’s part of my deal.”

I considered this for a moment. I didn’t want to trust Kirk, and yet every sign he was giving suggested he was telling the truth, that he was a gun for hire and had no stake in any game other than a paycheck. As a bonus, the story jived with the profile Jacob had dug up on him.

“And what are the Russians paying you to do?”

“Same thing as you’re being paid to do.”

“My job is to protect Julie.”

I shot her a glance. She leaned against the stall wall, her eyes large and sunken, a child who’d witnessed more trauma than she could absorb. Graffiti etched the paint behind her.

“Protect her,” Kirk continued. “Deliver her unharmed. Bingo.”

“Why would the Russians care if Julie is harmed? What value does she have to them?”

“Ask what value she has to you.” He shook his head. “Scratch that. I can see you’re the protective type, at least where she’s concerned. So instead, ask what value she has to your employer.”

A fair question.

“She knows something.”

It was a complete guess on my part. Since I had no idea who the VIP was or even if there was a VIP, a shot in the dark was all I could manage. I looked Julie’s way, this time in question.

She shook her head. “I don’t know anything. I swear.”

When I brought my focus back to Kirk, he was smiling.

“Okay, spill,” I said. “What does she know?”

“She doesn’t know anything. She told you herself.”

“So what are you getting at?” I gave him a hard stare, waiting for the punch line.

“It’s not what she knows. It’s what she is.”

Now I was really confused. “What she is?”

“I’m going to be on the level with you, Chandler. Okay? This is just a job to me. I don’t have anything to hide. If it matters, I wasn’t trying to kill you. I could have shot you at any time. I was simply knocking you out.”

“Just spill it, Kirk.”

He took a deep breath, let it out slow. “Ever heard of an asymptomatic carrier?”

Where the hell did that come from?

“It’s someone who has a disease and can spread it but never actually gets sick,” he said.

“What?” Julie not only looked in shock now, she appeared as confused as I was.

“And you’re telling me Julie is an asymptomatic carrier?” I asked Kirk.

He nodded.

Julie shook her head. “I am not. What are you talking about?”

Kirk’s gaze flicked to her. “You really have no idea, do you?”

“Idea of what?”

The girl was getting distressed now. I could hear it in the rising pitch of her voice.

“Don’t cry,” Kirk warned. “Do not cry.”

Julie’s chin trembled, but she held back the tears. “Chandler?”

I pressed the gun barrel against his temple, hard enough to leave a bruise.

“You have two seconds to explain.”

He spent his first second frowning at me, his next uttering a single word.

“Ebola.”

“Many things can happen in the field, developments no amount of training can help you understand or absorb,” said The Instructor. “In the face of such trauma, knowing how to compartmentalize extraneous thought and emotion can save your life.”

Heat rushed to my face, and I felt lightheaded. I lowered my arm from his throat, freeing him to sit normally, and rocked back on my heels. I wanted to believe it wasn’t true, that Kirk was lying, but it all added up. It all made sense.

A laugh bubbled up inside me, but I held it back. I felt giddy, on the edge of hysteria. This girl I’d been protecting—who I’d thought of as a younger me and even started to care about—was the host of a disease that could wipe out all of Manhattan.

Hell, it could wipe out the entire world.

Ebola was known as a filovirus, and it was probably the deadliest and most virulent little critter on the planet. Also known as hemorrhagic fever, Ebola basically invaded cells and chopped them into bits. Victims bled internally—and ultimately externally—through every opening in their body, including pores.

All bodily fluids leaked by someone with Ebola were highly infectious. Including tears.

If Julie was a carrier, she could spread the disease without getting ill herself.

She cannot be harmed in any way, not even slightly.

I took a step back, fear making my shoulders bunch up.

Every moment I’d been with Julie, I’d been on the verge of disaster. The bullet wound on my shoulder was like a wide open door. Add in all the cuts and scrapes I’d sustained, and I was just begging to be infected.

“How did she contract the virus in the first place?”

Kirk looked at Julie.

It took several seconds before she opened her mouth. “The free clinic.”

He nodded like an encouraging teacher whose student had found the right answer.

“I just went there to get some antibiotics, you know? They took a blood test and then they gave me a shot, and I woke up in a hospital, only …”

Her eyebrows dipped low, and worry dug lines in her forehead.

“Only what?” I prompted.

She focused on the grimy floor, her hands clasped.

“It wasn’t a hospital. It was some kind of … warehouse. On an island.”

“Plum Island,” Kirk said.

I knew Plum Island, AKA Plum Island Animal Disease Center, off the coasts of Long Island and Connecticut. There were actually several facilities on the island, and there had been rumors for decades it was a front for US biological weapons research.

“What happened there, Julie?”

“I don’t know.”

I studied her, the way her fingers fidgeted, the flush to her skin, and I had to wonder if she couldn’t remember or just didn’t want to.

“You must know something. How did you wind up at the mansion?”

“I got up out of bed … and … and … there were doctors and nurses …”

“Only,” Kirk filled in, “the nurses and doctors were dead.”

Julie’s face crumpled. “They were beat up and shot. Murdered.”

“No crying.” Kirk ordered.

She looked to the ceiling and fluttered her eyes, trying to drive back tears.

Kirk continued. “It might have looked like that to you, skin purple with bruising, blood everywhere.”

Julie nodded.

“They were infected by the virus. They got sick, crashed and bled out within hours.”

I almost choked. “That fast?”

A chill moved through me, chasing the heat. I was somewhat familiar with the symptoms of Ebola. The red eyes, the way the virus replicated and ate away at a person’s body until nothing was left but a bloody soup of more and more virus. But hours?

“I thought it took days.”

“Not this particular strain. It had some help. A little genetic tinkering.”

I let the new snip of information sink in.

“So I’m sick?” Julie said. She hiccupped a little.

“You’re not sick, but you can kill others.”

“Typhoid Mary,” I said.

“Exactly. Your body is a factory for a powerful biological weapon, a virus that couldn’t be produced without killing its host … until now.”

Julie slumped against the stall wall. She looked stunned, almost catatonic. But to her credit, she didn’t cry.

I had to report this to Jacob, only I was afraid what he’d say. It was probably a tossup; finish the op by delivering her to the government, or destroy her.

What the hell was I going to do?

I now understood why the defense department was concerned about Julie. If she was a living, breathing, hot zone capable of killing people within a few hours, every government and terrorist group on the planet would want her. She’d be worth billions.

Because she could kill billions.

Kirk cocked his head to the side and looked at me as if he’d just finished discussing a Broadway play or a film he’d seen at the local multiplex.

“So, where are we off to now?”

“We?”

I struggled to shut away the voice in the back of my mind that was screaming Ebola, Ebola, holy shit, Ebola, and focus on my surroundings.

If possible, the smells of mildew and urine had gotten worse, mixing with the scent of stress emanating from the three of us. One of the faucets dripped, and somewhere in the walls I heard a clunk in the pipes.

Something inside me shifted, as if I could physically feel myself locking away the shock and fitting back into my skin.

“Morrissey has a personal car. I can take you to it.” Kirk raised his brows, trying to sell the suggestion.

I answered with an emotionless frown. “Actually, this is where we part ways.”

He didn’t seem surprised. He answered with a sideways sort of smile, of all things.

“You made me run all this way on a bum leg just to kill me?”

“Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Do I get a last request?”

“Depends. What is it?”

“Kiss me.”

I hadn’t seen that one coming. Facing death, and still flirting. Had to hand it to him.

“Seriously?”

“Ever since I laid eyes on you, I’ve thought about kissing you. Could I ask, out of professional courtesy, for one kiss before you kill me?”

A kiss. After handing Julie off to him at Columbus Circle, that’s precisely the path my thoughts had taken. A kiss. Hot sex. That seemed like forever ago.

Now I was bodyguard to a biological weapon, and I had to single-handedly keep her away from Iranians and South Americans who wanted to use her blood to wipe out their enemies.

“How about it, Chandler?”

I blinked, bringing my thoughts back to Kirk, an idea starting to form.

“How much did they pay you?” I asked. “The Russians?”

“Fifty grand. Twenty-five up front. If I don’t deliver, I have to return it.”

Killing him was no doubt the safer move, but I didn’t kill unless I had a very good reason for it. So far, Kirk appeared to have been upfront about everything.

Besides, I could use some help.

“Tell you what. You return the money, come back to working for us, and Uncle Sam will give you sixty.”

Kirk smiled, full out this time. “I like that deal.”

“Of course you do.”

“You think you can trust me?”

“I think you’re a whore for the money. You’ll serve whoever’s paying you.”

“True. So what about the kiss?”

Cocky bastard. “If we get out of this alive, I’ll give you more than a kiss.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Now where’s Morrissey’s car?” I remembered what Jacob had told me about the murdered spy. “Staten Island?”

He nodded. “The St. George ferry terminal. Just need to take the number one train to the ferry.”

I hiked up my jeans, slipped the small blade from my ankle sheath, and used it to cut the zip tie on his wrists.

“Give me your jacket.”

“Undressing me? You rethought that whole waiting-to-see-if-we-lived thing?”

“You’re not that cute.”

“Sure I am.”

Yeah. He was. But I was the one with the gun. I pointed it.

He handed me the garment.

I tore off a sleeve and hiked up his blood-soaked pant leg. I was right, the bullet hadn’t hit bone. In fact, the wound looked more like a deep cut than a gunshot. Still, flesh wounds, as they call them in the movies, were not something to scoff at. They hurt like hell, could render a muscle ineffective, and caused significant blood loss.

“Julie, can you … um … step back a bit?”

She nodded, putting both hands over her mouth as if her very breath was infectious. The dazed expression in her eyes was different than the drug buzz. She looked to be in shock.

I used the jacket sleeve to wrap Kirk’s leg and slow the bleeding. Ebola or not, this was a mission like any other. My life was in danger. Other lives were in danger.

Anyone who got in my way was in the most danger of all.

“Killing is part of your job,” The Instructor said. “You must know when to do it and be able to follow through without hesitation.”

The creak of the bathroom door hinges dumped another dose of adrenaline into my bloodstream. I peered through the space between the stall walls and door and spotted a flustered looking man carrying a briefcase. Judging from the way he moved and his obliviousness to his surroundings, I pegged him to be just what he seemed, a guy who needed to pee.

He sidled up to one of the urinals, just about to open his fly.

I held the Ruger against my leg where he wouldn’t be likely to spot it, but yet it would be ready in case I was mistaken, and opened the door.

Kirk limped out of the stall behind me, followed by Julie.

The guy’s eyebrows jutted upward, then an attaboy smile spread over his lips.

I caught a low chuckle coming from Kirk.

Boys.

We moved to the door. I inched it open, checking the area outside before emerging. I remembered red dots on the signs marking the platform and wound back to it. Sure enough, the number one was among the train lines posted.

Now we just needed the train to make its appearance before the Iranians did.

I focused on our surroundings. Exhaust hung in the air like thick fog, along with the usual mix of body odor and too much perfume. Still, compared to the smells in the bathroom, the air was positively fresh.

Tiled floors and walls bounced the clack of footfalls and rumble of voices until they meshed into a general roar, each sound almost indistinguishable from the other. A brass quartet played New York, New York further down on the platform. And finally, getting closer, I detected the low roar of an approaching train.

I almost didn’t hear the voice.

Farsi.

I turned toward the sound, scanning the crowd. One of the men from the SUV raced down the steps toward us, a cell phone in his left hand, his right tucked under his sport coat, most likely concealing a weapon. His eyes were trained on Julie and Kirk.

The rumble grew louder. People shifted on the platform, positioning themselves for closest access to the doors once the train arrived.

I eyed Kirk. His leg injury would slow him down, but he could still help me. I could no longer afford to sit on the fence. I either had to trust him or not.

I slipped out the pistol and handed it to him. Then I drew my knife from its sheath and opened the serrated, black blade.

“Get her on the train. You cross me, I’ll find you.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

I stepped to the side. The crowd closed in around Julie and Kirk, filling the spot I’d vacated.

Avoiding or heading off a dangerous situation was always preferable to dealing with a threat once it arrived. As an operative, much of my training focused on being aware of everything around me. Not just sight, but sounds and smells and attention to subliminal clues—what most people liked to think of as hunches or intuition. Awareness prevented surprises. It also staved off the sin of tunnel vision.

My Persian friend might be very good with whatever weapon he held under his jacket, but when it came to being aware, his training was lacking.

I circled to the right, moving purposefully but slowly enough not to gain notice. Reaching the benches lining the wall at the back of the platform, I wound through the crowd, keeping watch on the back of my target’s head, moving closer.

My hair clung to the back of my neck. The train’s roar grew louder, drowning out all other sounds, even the patter of my own heartbeat.

I stepped up, only inches behind him.

He didn’t know I was there until I had my left hand on his mouth, fingers bruise-tight across his lips, thumb over his nose, squeezing down. I yanked his head back, to my right shoulder, and at the same time, thrust my knife low and buried it hard into his back, punching through his ribs, penetrating his heart.

He arched and cried out against my hand just as the train swept into the station, the rumble drowning out everything. I held his mouth and kept the blade in his body, feeling it twitch with his heartbeat.

One …

Two …

Three.

The doors whooshed open and the crowd shifted to one side to allow commuters to clear out of the cars.

I moved with the crowd, stepping away and letting him fall, trying to pull my knife back. But the S&W didn’t have a blood groove, and suction held it fast.

By the time he hit concrete, I had blended into the sea of commuters. I wasn’t worried about fingerprints—the knife handle had been treated to resist latents—but I didn’t like being unarmed.

Screams cut through the ambient noise. People pushed and scattered. I saw a dark-haired man ramming his way through the crowd, moving quickly from my right. Trying to help? Afraid of missing the train?

No. Another Persian assailant.

How did all of these assholes get into the country? Didn’t TSA have a goddamn no fly list?

The people departing the train cleared the doors, and the crowd surged forward. I caught a glimpse of Kirk ushering Julie into a subway car.

The new arrival noted the same thing. He veered in the direction of the train.

I angled my trajectory to head him off, bouncing between harried commuters. A voice said something over the public address system, impossible to decipher.

One woman elbowed me as I tried to pass. “Hey, wait your turn.”

I refused to give ground. “You don’t want to get on this train.”

She gave me a sour look but wisely allowed me to squeeze past, not that she really had a choice.

I reached the door a split second before the Persian did and jumped inside, taking two running steps and then grabbing the pole used for standing commuters. Channeling my inner stripper, I whirled around, leading with my feet, ankles together.

As the Iranian stepped onto the train, I plowed into him with both heels.

He flew backward, flying into the sharp-elbowed woman and sending both of them sprawling onto the concrete platform.

I fell to the floor of the train, landing hard on my hip.

He recovered before I did, rising to his knees, pulling a pistol out of a shoulder holster, pointing the barrel square at my chest.

The explosion was deafening, bouncing off steel and cement.

I flinched, expecting the impact, expecting the pain.

The Iranian flinched, looking surprised.

A moment later he slumped to the ground, trying and failing to plug the bullet hole in his chest with his hands.

I guess Kirk was trustworthy after all.

The subway car erupted, screams, crying, stampeding people. I grabbed the pole to keep from being swept out, peering past the surge and into the car, searching for Kirk and Julie. Kirk had concealed the gun and was moving with the crowd, pushing Julie toward the open door, acting as if they were part of the panic.

I did the same, getting to my feet and rushing through the door in front of me. With a gun going off and two dead on the ground, there wasn’t a chance in hell the station agent in the booth would let the train go on as usual. We’d have to find another route downtown.

The sharp-elbowed woman lay on the ground behind the dead Persian spy. She looked up, staring at me with shell-shocked eyes.

“You should have listened to me,” I said as I stepped over the body and blended with the crowd.

I caught up with Kirk and Julie at the closest subway newsstand.

“The two of you. Put these on,” Kirk shoved a Yankees baseball cap, and I LOVE NY tee shirt, and a pair of fuchsia sunglasses into my arms.

I grabbed Julie and ducked into the bathroom. Suppressing my Chicago Cubs fan sensibilities, I shoved my hair up under the hat.

I gave Julie the tee and glasses. She was listless, her jaw slack.

“You hanging in there?” I asked.

She stared at me like she hadn’t realized I was standing next to her.

“You should get away from me.” She bit her lower lip.

“My job is to protect you, Julie.”

“I could make you sick.”

“I’m willing to take that chance.”

She looked ready to burst into tears, but choked it back.

“You’re going to be okay,” I said.

“Really?”

“Yes,” I lied.

She reached out to hug me, then caught herself and shrank back.

Poor thing.

When we emerged, Kirk was waiting for us, dressed in a dark blue NY tee. He gave me his white button down, and I pulled it on as an over shirt and rolled up the sleeves.

As far as disguises went, it wasn’t much. I doubted it would fool the Iranians or the Venezuelans or whatever additional intelligence agencies happened to be after us, but it might keep the cops off our tails. Eyewitnesses in stressful situations tended to remember the simple things, if they remembered anything accurately at all. Changing the general look of our clothing and length of my hair would hopefully get us off the NYPD’s radar.

One concern in a mile-long list.

“We need to get out of here,” I told Kirk. “Think you can hoof it for a while?”

He looked about as excited about the idea as I expected.

“The ferry terminal is at the tip of Manhattan. That’s a long damn way.”

“Then let’s shoot for the Columbus Circle subway station.”

He nodded. “Ever get the feeling we’re retracing our steps?”

“It has occurred to me.”

We emerged from the subway to find rush hour still in play and Lincoln Center’s fountain rimmed with summer tourists and New Yorkers alike. The faint beat of helicopter blades sounded overhead, and my stomach seized until I spotted it. Police this time, not ideal, but at least it wasn’t Hawk Nose and his friends.

I eyed Kirk. In the sunlight I could detect the sheen of fresh blood darkening his pant leg, seeping through my makeshift bandage. If we had to do much walking, I wasn’t sure he would last.

Ditto if Julie sneezed on him.

I had to admit, I was relieved to have Julie away from mass transit. Ever since finding out who she really was, what she really was, the knowledge that her blood could wipe out much of the city weighed heavily on me. The odds of getting her all the way to the tip of Manhattan, then across the harbor to Staten Island, seemed astronomical and growing. Even if she died, she still represented a threat.

It was something I would have to deal with, sooner or later.

“Come on,” I said.

Kirk nodded, sweat already soaking his hair and trickling down his forehead. He picked up the pace, his lips tight with pain.

“You’d better take this.” He handed me the Ruger.

He’d proven himself a good shot, but he was probably right. Running on a bad leg didn’t improve marksmanship. As long as he could shepherd Julie, I’d take care of the rest. I slipped it into my holster just as my phone buzzed.

“Is Ginny there?” Jacob’s electronic voice asked.

“I’m sorry, she left for Phoenix yesterday,” I said, giving the appropriate response.

“Tell me you’re not near Lincoln Center.”

We kept walking. “Are you asking me to lie?”

“That’s what I was afraid of. Get out of there.”

“The police are on their way, I know.”

“The city is on lockdown. They’re calling that tunnel explosion a terrorist act, and some dead Iranians were just discovered in the subway. They’re buttoning up Manhattan. National Guard has been called.”

Shit. So much for our plan to get to Staten Island. I needed to come up with another way out of the city, and I had to do it quickly.

“Listen, I found out some interesting things about our Julie.”

After I filled him in, Jacob was silent for a good ten seconds before speaking.

“What are you going to do with her, Chandler?”

I wished I knew. “I’m not sure. Get her out of New York, for one.”

“You know the threat she represents.”

I glanced at Julie. She looked beaten. Afraid. Confused. It wasn’t her fault our military turned her into a germ warfare incubator.

But life wasn’t fair, and the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few.

“I know,” I told Jacob. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“If the enemy gets her, or even if Uncle Sam gets her and she’s brought back to Plum Island …”

“I know, Jacob. Right now, my main goal is getting her away from here.”

“How?”

I glanced up at the NYPD chopper overhead. It was a long shot, but with Kirk’s help, I might be able to make it work.

“What’s the closest helipad to Lincoln Center?”

I heard the clacking of a computer keyboard over the phone despite the traffic noises all around me.

“Probably your best bet is the Port Authority Helipad at 30th Street and the Hudson.”

“Thanks, Jacob. Oh, and Mr. Kirk is now working for us.”

“You turned him.”

“His deep-rooted sense of patriotism won out in the end.”

“So you offered him money.”

“How do you know it wasn’t my feminine wiles?”

“Was it your feminine wiles?”

“Partly. We also owe him sixty grand.”

“I’ll make arrangements. I trust your judgment, Chandler, and hope this doesn’t have anything to do with him looking like Colin Farrell.”

“I can’t entirely rule that out.”

“Hmm. Well, maybe you two will have a chance to hook up.”

“Maybe.”

“If you live long enough.”

“If any of us do.” I ended the call and squinted at Kirk. “We need a cab.”

He glanced back over his shoulder, and we spotted the men at the same time. More Iranians. Two of them threaded through the pedestrians, each with a hand hidden under their jackets, eighty meters away and rushing toward us at an alarming speed.

Shit. That hadn’t taken long.

“We need to get the hell out of here,” I said, but we were already running, weaving through pedestrians, Kirk gimping along with his arm behind Julie, gingerly guiding her in the right direction. Traffic flowed by on the street, cab after cab with silhouettes in back seats, vacancy lights off, and not a pedicab to be found.

Each equipped with two good legs, the men were closing fast.

I felt the beat of chopper blades in my chest and scanned the sky between buildings. A purple Bell 427 hovered overhead.

Welcome back to the party, Hawk Nose.

We had to get some wheels or this would be over far too soon.

Our trio hobbled along for another block before a cab with an empty back seat passed us. It stopped at the next intersection, its vacancy light off, signaling it wasn’t looking for passengers.

Not that I was going to let that stop me.

I raced into the street. Grabbed the back door handle.

Locked.

The front passenger window was open, so I reached through, found the handle, and yanked it open.

“Hey! Hey! What do ya think you’re doing?”

“Get out,” I ordered.

“I’m off duty,” he said.

“You see this?” I asked, reaching my hand under my skirt.

“Hell, yeah!” he said. Then he saw I was holding a gun. “Hell, no.”

“Unlock the door.”

“You’re holding me up?”

“Take your cash. I just want the car.”

He frowned. “Look, lady, I got a wife who’s a fat, lazy bitch, a kid in a gang who sells smack, the landlord just served us papers, and this morning I found out I have diabetes. You kill me, you’d be doing me a favor.”

I had barely registered the crack of the gunshot when the windshield spiderwebbed, and the driver gurgled and slumped against the wheel. The bullet had just missed me.

Julie stared, mouth open, as Kirk forced her down behind the cab.

“Get in,” I yelled, ducking inside and hitting the unlock button.

Kirk pushed her into the back seat, climbed in behind her, and shut the door. He slipped his hand behind her back and bent her forward at the waist, out of the line of fire.

I didn’t have time to undo the seat belt and pull out the body, so I slid onto the dead man’s lap and shifted into drive.

The light stayed red. Cars boxed us in from all sides.

I found the two Iranians behind us with my mirrors. The one who had taken out the cabbie crossed the street in front of us, weaving through standing traffic.

Here I’d been totally focused on the pursuers behind and missed the man in front.

I couldn’t miss him now.

He walked closer and closer, until he was just off my left bumper.

Just when I was convinced I’d made my last mistake, the light changed to green, and the river of cars started to inch forward.

Not fast enough.

The man in the street raised his hands, the pistol in his fists pointed at my head.

I cranked the wheel and hit the gas.

He bounced off the hood with a sickening thud and hit the street.

I kept going, gunning the engine as the cab lurched and bumped over him.

Tires squealed around us. Horns blared. Cars rushed by.

Some New Yorkers didn’t let anything get in their way.

We cleared the intersection, traffic in front of us still moving. In the rearview, I could see the remaining two men race across the street.

Judging by the purpose with which they moved, I assumed their SUV was close by. They’d be back on our tail soon. And if Hawk Nose did even a passable job keeping track of us from the sky, the Iranians weren’t our only concern. Even so, it was the best head start we’d had all day, and I’d take it.

The West 30th Street Heliport rested on the bank of the Hudson River. More than thirty blocks away. Traffic was crazy, due to the tunnel being closed, the subway incident, and presumably the dead man now lying in the center of 9th Avenue, emergency vehicles everywhere.

I drove like all of our lives depended on it.

The SUV appeared, too soon for my comfort, ten car lengths behind.

We played stop and go, street light to street light. Sometimes I gained a few meters. Sometimes the Iranians did. At each red, we watched intently to see if they jumped out of their vehicle to rush us. So far, so good.

It took ten excruciating minutes to reach 49th Street, and I got the hell off of 9th and turned right, heading for 12th Avenue, our pace slightly faster than a snail surfing on molasses.

“You guys okay back there?” I asked, eyeing my passengers.

Kirk had distanced himself from Julie as much as he could, leaning against the passenger side door.

“Never better,” he said, winking at me.

I couldn’t see the SUV behind us anymore, but wasn’t optimistic I’d lost them. This op had been nothing but one bad break after another, and the only thing I was optimistic about was the fact that our luck was terrible.

I blew through a yellow light and swung left onto the boulevard that was 12th Avenue, the vast blue/black of the river running parallel to us, filling my nostrils. Coming up on the right was the USS Intrepid, moored there since 1982. The once mighty aircraft carrier was now a museum, a relic of wars past.

Once again I checked the rearview, eyeing Julie.

The Intrepid was still a sight to behold, over two hundred fifty meters long, weighing thirty thousand tons, armor four inches thick in parts. A fearsome weapon.

But not as fearsome as what I had in my back seat.

Traffic was better on the boulevard. We passed the Silver Towers, the sprawling Javits Center, and finally reached our destination. A long, concrete platform edged the water, enclosed by fencing and a few no-frills trailers, the heliport was built for function, not fanciness.

Lucky for us it wasn’t built for security, either.

Best yet, a small, sightseeing helicopter sat on the helipad, as if waiting for us.

Maybe our luck had begun to change.

I swung the cab into the entrance. We didn’t have much time, and normally I would ram the cab straight through the fence instead of risking involving civilians. But considering Julie’s state, things weren’t so simple. If a flying bit of glass should cut her or she happened to bump her nose, a city full of civilians wouldn’t just be involved—they’d be dead.

I double-parked, and we headed for the trailer promising helicopter tours of the Big Apple. I took the lead, Kirk hobbling behind me with Julie at his side. Still no sign of the Iranians.

The inside of the trailer was about as posh as the outside. Indoor/outdoor carpet, particle board furniture, and the smell of well-aged cigarette smoke from before the recent indoor smoking ban gave the place an ambiance all its own. At least it was clean.

“Can I help you?”

The young woman behind the counter peered over her glasses at us. The evening sun streamed through the window and reflected off the diamond stud in her right nostril.

“We need to take a helicopter.”

“I’m afraid there’s a couple going up right now. We prefer you make reservations, but I have some paperwork here that—”

I met Kirk’s eyes, and we brushed past the desk and made for the door leading out to the helipad.

“Wait! You can’t—”

But we could, and we did.

Leaving the woman yelling empty threats in our wake, we reached a blue helicopter—a single engine EC120—emblazoned with the tour company’s logo. Smaller than the corporate craft used by Hawk Nose, this bird offered only one compartment, forcing the pilot and the passengers to cram together in the tiny space. The pilot stood with his back to us, instructing an older, well-dressed couple in how to fasten their harnesses.

“I’m sorry, but you won’t be sightseeing today,” I told them.

The tourist couple stared at me as if I was speaking another language. The pilot frowned.

“Who are you?”

“Homeland Security. We’re commandeering this aircraft. Now I need you to get out and return to the trailer immediately. Oh, and keep your heads down.”

The pilot shook his head. “Can I see some sort of ID?”

Overhead I could hear the whomp, whomp, whomp of chopper blades in the far off distance, the sound bouncing off buildings. I could only hope it was another tour coming in to land, but I had a bad feeling I was just fooling myself.

I pulled out the Ruger. “The helicopter. We need it. Now.”

The pilot backed away from the door. The couple scrambled, almost tripping over each other to get out. Some part of me registered that this was the third mode of transportation I’d stolen in the last hour.

I nodded to Julie and Kirk. “Hurry.”

Julie looked as if she’d rather do just about anything but go on another helicopter ride, but she stepped up into the tiny craft anyway.

Behind Kirk, the pilot turned around, and I caught a gleam in his eye, that little surge of adrenaline people felt just before they were about to do something very stupid.

I opened my mouth to shout a warning.

I needn’t have bothered.

Kirk twisted at the waist, throwing his body weight into a well-aimed punch.

The pilot crumpled onto the concrete.

“Nice,” I said.

He cocked his head and shot me a half smile. “I’m a lover, not a fighter. Wait ‘til I show you my real talents.”

Still no Iranians, but in the distance I saw a chopper heading toward us, still too far to tell if it was Hawk Nose, or just a tourist craft.

I climbed into the pilot’s seat, Kirk slipping into the seat next to Julie.

Moving fast, I familiarized myself with the interior: collective control stick, cyclic control stick, rudder pedals, RPM gauge, altimeter, airspeed indicator, manifold pressure gauge, vertical speed indicator, fuel gauge, oil pressure and temp, cylinder head temp.

Then, Kirk: “Above us!”

I was just reaching for the ignition when a round crashed through the upper windshield and dug into the main instrument panel. More bullets peppered the fuselage. I dropped to the floor.

Apparently Hawk Nose had realized Julie’s corpse was nearly as valuable as taking her alive.

Shitastic.

Julie hunched forward. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

“Are you hit?” Kirk yelled at Julie.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

“They’re shooting at us,” Julie screamed over the noise.

“But are you hurt?”

“No, no. I’m okay.”

“No crying.”

Another full magazine of automatic weapon fire punched through the roof, pinging off the metal floor. While the layered construction of the hull and windshield was made to withstand the occasional run in with a seagull or even a goose, it couldn’t hold up to bullets. And I couldn’t risk lifting off, provided the instrument panel was even operational at this point.

“We have to evacuate. Find cover.”

I swung the doors on both sides of the cockpit open.

The roar of another engine caught my attention, then the shuddering clang of steel.

I had hesitated at running through the fence. The Iranians hadn’t. The green SUV screeched to a stop less than twenty yards away, between us and our yellow cab.

“The river.” Kirk gave me a look. “Can you keep them busy?”

I nodded, fitting the Ruger into my hands, wishing I had a rifle. “Move.”

Kirk and Julie scrambled out of the cockpit and crouched on the helicopter’s off side. I climbed out as well, kneeling low, trying to gain as much cover as I could.

I gave Kirk a look, then squeezed off several rounds, first targeting the helicopter, which was too high to hit, and then the Iranians’ SUV.

Bullets flew, from the ground, from the air, until it was impossible to tell who was shooting who, the only thing I was sure of was that Julie and Kirk had made it off the edge of the platform and into the river.

I didn’t think I would be so lucky.

The chopper lifted higher, flying out of range of my .380.

Something moved in my peripheral vision.

I swung the pistol back in time to see one of the Iranians advancing along the concrete pad that jutted into the water, just ten feet away.

He wasn’t out of my range. I put a round in his throat.

The Persian went down, made a few twitching movements, and then lay still, his rifle still slung across his shoulder.

A gift.

Firing off my last few rounds, I scooted toward the man I’d just killed. I yanked the rifle—a Madsen LAR—over his head and tugged the strap free of his heavy body.

The weapon was hot to the touch, and by my mental count he’d used about half of his thirty round AK magazine. I squeezed off a burst of three at the SUV.

No one returned fire, but I could see movement.

The beat of the blades crescendoed, coming in for another assault.

I couldn’t hold off the chopper and the SUV, not without more ammunition, and in a few more seconds, my chance to make a break would be gone.

I fired another three rounds, then made my dash for the river.

My feet slapped pavement, trying to get traction, adrenaline humming in my ears.

Five steps to go.

Four.

Three.

A gust of wind hit me, sending my Yankees cap flying, knocking me to my knees.

The purple helicopter dropped in front of me, hovering, cutting me off.

I propped myself up, raised the rifle, took aim, fired.

My first shot cracked the windshield. My second missed entirely.

The chopper turned to the side. The passenger compartment door gaped open, my old buddy Hawk Nose raising his rifle, putting me in his sites.

I squeezed the trigger and held it, giving him everything I had left.

But I didn’t aim for Hawk Nose.

I aimed for the back rotor, and I hit it square.

The helicopter whirled around, spinning, spinning. It veered to the side, smacked into the far side of the platform, crumpling like an angry god squeezed it in his fist. Flames began to curl out from the engines.

Tires screeched, drawing my attention. It was the SUV.

The last Iranian was driving away, fleeing the scene.

But why?

I scrambled to my feet, dropping the useless rifle and heading for the water’s edge. The helicopter exploded in a brilliant fireball, heated air and the smell of burning fuel washing over me.

Adios, Hawk Nose. Maybe you’ll luck out and they’ll have donkey porn in hell.

I spotted Julie and Kirk twenty meters away, hovering on the edge of the platform, clinging to the concrete pilings that anchored the pier-like helipad to the river floor.

My purse vibrated, and I slapped my cell to my face.

I traded codes with Jacob. It was a miracle I could remember the appropriate response.

“Chandler, I’m watching via satellite feed. They’re coming.”

“Who?”

“The DoD. They’re treating you as hostiles.”

“How soon?”

“Now. Get out of there.”

“Nice shot,” Kirk said, peering up from the water as I approached.

The river smelled, of fish, of rot, of petroleum and garbage. The air smelled of smoke. Something moved at the base of the pilings, and I had a creeping feeling it was probably rats.

“We need to go.”

“We can swim downriver, steal a boat or a car.”

“Let’s do it.” I squatted, preparing to slip into the water, and squinted past Kirk. “Ready, Julie?”

“I … I can’t.” Julie stared into the darkness under the platform.

“Don’t think about them,” I said. “Rats won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt them.”

“No, no, it’s not that.” Her voice was soaked in tears, and I glanced at Kirk, waiting for him to warn her not to cry.

Kirk was facing the same direction as Julie, but they weren’t staring at the rats. They were staring at the red blooming all along Julie’s arm and streaming into the water.

A hum rose in my ears. Bright motes swirled in front of my eyes, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to throw up or cry.

Kirk was the first to recover. “Get out of the water. Now.”

He grabbed Julie by the arm and dragged her around the helipad and up the shore.

I pushed all thought, all feeling into the back of my mind and forced myself to follow, my body relying on training and muscle memory to function.

We ran for the closest trailer. The door was locked, so I broke it down. Once inside, I pulled off Kirk’s button down, wrung it out and handed it to him. We moved quickly and without talking, him wrapping the cut on Julie’s arm, me checking the trailer’s perimeter.

The hum in my ears gave way to a beating sound, more helicopters, two of them, black this time. Four matching SUVs roared through the broken gate and rimmed the perimeter of the heliport, reflecting light from the burning chopper like dark mirrors. Soldiers wearing black CBRN suits deployed from the vehicles, assault rifles at the ready. They moved from trailer to trailer, clearing each, approaching ours.

I knew what was coming but had no ideas of how to stop it. I had no gun. Even if I did, shooting was risky. Of course, they would have to choose their targets carefully. Julie was too valuable to harm.

Unfortunately, I doubted Kirk and I would come out of this alive.

But then, we already knew that.

I met Kirk’s gaze, pressing my lips into a bitter smile.

He lowered one lid in a wink. “I only wish we’d taken time for that kiss.”

I did, too. I had just opened my mouth to say so when a window shattered, and I heard the hiss.

An incapacitating agent.

Yeah, that’s what I would have done.

I started to feel the effects before I realized I’d taken a breath.

“As an operative, you must learn to live in the moment,” The Instructor said. “Not just while carrying out an assignment, but in every aspect of your life. There’s no point in putting things off when the future may never come.”

When I woke, I expected to be bound.

Scratch that—I expected to be dead.

I was wrong on both counts.

Beyond that, my thoughts were scrambled. Images drifted through my mind in snips and snatches. Fire. Water. Subways and helicopters.

Blood.

Swirling blood.

I forced my eyes open, pushed back the confusion long enough to concentrate on my surroundings. I was lying in bed, wearing a flimsy hospital gown and nothing underneath but heart monitor pads stuck to my chest. An IV tube snaked from my hand and led to a bag hanging from an adjustable metal pole attached to the bed frame. Cloth tape held a square of gauze to the outside of my left upper arm.

My skin felt hot, my stomach uneasy. I could smell river water and rubbing alcohol and the dusty scent of concrete. The area looked like a hospital room, white floors, blank, white walls, but there were no windows.

And I was not alone.

As soon as I saw Jonathan Kirk, I knew who he was, but it took a little longer to remember why we were here.

The river. Jacob’s warning. The cut on Julie’s arm.

He was in a bed hooked to monitors, same as me.

I wondered where they’d put Julie. Wondered how long we had to live. I watched Kirk in silence until his eyelids fluttered.

“Hey,” I said.

He opened his eyes fully and frowned at me, obviously as confused as I had been.

I sat up on my stretcher. A little dizzy at first, I planted elbows on knees and cradled my head in my hands.

“I think we’re in some kind of lab.”

A minute or two passed, and I could see the thoughts shifting around in his mind, just as they had in mine. Finally Kirk sat up and glanced around the room.

“Plum Island.”

“You’ve been here before?”

He shook his head. “Just a guess.”

“Probably a good one.”

He swung off the side of the bed, slid onto his feet, and grimaced.

“Damn leg.”

Bandages wrapped his gunshot wound, ankle to knee.

“There’s a camera in the corner.” I pointed out the small device hugging the ceiling.

Kirk gave it a sneer. “They’re watching us, waiting to see how we die.”

In my line of work, dying was an occupational hazard. But I’d often speculated about how I’d feel when the time came. I’d faced death before. I’d fought it. So far, I’d won. But this time I had no one to fight. This time the enemy was inside, and no tool or training or sheer will to survive could save me.

I probably should be frightened. Instead I felt nothing at all.

“You’re awake,” a male voice said.

I followed the sound to an intercom speaker, embedded in the wall.

“Why are we here?”

“You’ve been infected with a virulent disease.”

“A virulent disease?” That might be the understatement of the year. “You mean Ebola.”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the girl? Where’s Julie?”

“She’s here. Thank you for bringing her back where she belongs.”

I looked up at the camera. “You’re the VIP, aren’t you?

“VIP?”

“The one who requested this operation. The one with ties to the DoD.”

“Weapons are the purview of the defense department, it’s true.”

It was neither a confirmation nor a denial, but I didn’t need either. I knew the answer.

“What is your name?”

“Pembrooke.”

“I want to see Julie, Mr. Pembrooke.”

“It’s Dr. Pembrooke, and she’s serving her country. You two have an opportunity to do the same.”

“An opportunity?” Kirk guffawed. “Does that mean we can refuse?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“You both had injuries. Being in close proximity to Miss James meant a very high likelihood of infection.”

“So now you’re watching us to see how well your new biological weapon works?”

“All weapons must be tested.”

“So that means what?” Kirk asked in a dry voice. “You kick back and watch us die, while chomping on popcorn and Raisinets?”

“We aren’t doing this because we find it entertaining, Mr. Kirk. This is science.”

“Maybe we weren’t infected,” I said.

There was no reply.

Then I understood.

“You son of a bitch. You made sure we were infected. Didn’t you, Pembrooke?”

“Why?” Kirk asked. “To keep us quiet?”

“The genie can’t be put back into the bottle, Mr. Kirk. Our concerns are more immediate than you spilling government secrets. We have a weapon, and we need to know if we can properly manage it.”

“Manage it? How can you manage a …”

But then I knew. I knew it sure as anything.

“You’re testing a cure.” As soon as I’d said the words, my hands began to shake.

“Yes, we are testing a cure. A DNA vaccination, to be more specific.”

“Well, what’re you waiting for?” Kirk said. “Shoot us up.”

“We administered it while you were unconscious.”

I scanned Kirk’s body, my own arms and legs. “And is it working?”

“We’ll see.”

I wasn’t very attentive in middle school, but I did remember a few things from science class.

“If this is an experiment, there has to be a control group.”

“Yes.”

My stomach dipped. “So you only gave one of us the cure …”

“And the other was given a placebo shot. That’s correct.”

I closed my eyes. Pressure assaulted my chest, making it hard to breathe. I wanted to look at Kirk, see how he was handling this, but I was afraid if I did, my shaking would increase. Or worse yet, I’d start to cry.

Kirk was the one who summed up the obvious. “So one of us will die and the other gets to watch.”

“That will be true if the vaccine works.”

“And when one of us starts showing symptoms? Will you give the vaccine then?”

“That will be too late. Once the virus has replicated enough to be symptomatic, the vaccine is no longer effective.”

“You’ve done other tests?”

“Only with chimps. The vaccine was not effective once symptoms began.”

I forced my eyes open, remembering the dead doctors and nurses Julie had described. I had to wonder what the prick on the intercom had done with the bodies. What excuse he’d given the families to explain why their loved ones weren’t coming home from work.

“How do you know the vaccine will be effective if it’s given earlier?” Kirk asked.

“We don’t.”

“So we could both die.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Unfortunately?” I let out a bitter laugh. “I’m sure your heart bleeds.”

“I’m defending our country. Defending our way of life from those who seek to destroy it. Every war has casualties.”

“Don’t give us that war on terror bullshit, Pembrooke. And don’t give us that goose-stepping just following orders bullshit, either.”

“If we didn’t do things like this, the other side would.”

“If you didn’t do things like this, the other side might not hate us so goddamn much. You’re a monster.”

I wasn’t naïve. I’d done a lot of morally questionable things, murdered a lot of people, all in the name of my government and keeping my country safe. But I killed players. Politicos. Military. We all signed on for it. Creating a biological weapon, which would no doubt kill millions of innocent civilians …

I reached under my gown and pulled the sensors off my chest, causing the machine to flat line. Then I ripped the tape off my hand and pulled the IV needle out of my vein.

“The morphine drip is to help you with the pain. And we need to monitor your vitals to—”

“You need to shut the fuck up.” I slung my legs over the side of the bed.

“You really should—”

“I’d listen to her if I were you,” Kirk said.

I didn’t feel any effects of morphine. My head was clear, my body as achy as ever. Even so, my first steps were wobbly, a few remaining effects of whatever they’d gassed us with. I was steady by the time I reached the door.

Locked.

“There’s no way out of that room, not until we come in and get you.”

“You’d better hope not, Pembrooke. Because if I get out of here, the things I’m going to do to you will make Ebola look like hay fever.”

I tried the door with a couple of kicks, then moved on to the perimeter of the room, testing walls, ceiling, and floor until I had no sane option but to acknowledge the voice was right. There was nothing left to do but die.

Or watch the other die.

My stomach felt hollow.

I walked back to the bed where Kirk had just disabled his heart monitor. He was a few years older, a formidable man, a mercenary forged by the same type of red-hot violence that had hardened me. And when I looked at the calm in his eyes, I wondered how many times he had recognized the possibility of his own death.

“Ever dreamed it would happen like this?”

He gave me a crooked smile. “Never thought about it.”

“Not once?”

He shrugged.

“It doesn’t bother you to die in a laboratory as part of some sick experiment?”

“Better than a men’s can in the subway.” He gave me that bedroom eyes stare. “And I couldn’t ask for better company.”

I let out a small laugh at his bravado.

It had to be bravado.

He couldn’t be serious.

Right?

I looked at him, studied his face.

Jesus, he actually was serious.

My stomach jittered again, but this time it was a good kind of jitter.

“I took a picture of you,” I said.

No reason not to be brazen.

“What for?” he asked.

“For me. If I never saw you again.”

“But you don’t need a picture. Here I am.”

“Here you are.”

I stepped close and circled my hands around his neck. This morning I hadn’t known him. Just a few hours ago, I’d been ready to kill him. Now it felt like we were the only two people in a brutal world, and only one of us would see tomorrow.

I brought my lips to his.

He opened to me, his hand cradling the back of my head, pulling my mouth hard against his.

Heat spiked my blood.

Lust.

Life.

I wasn’t sure how long the kiss lasted, but when we broke apart, I knew it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. Needed more. If I only had minutes left on this planet, I would damn well make them count.

“I know how I want to go out,” I whispered.

He tilted his head to the side, studying me, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “And our friend on the other side of that camera?”

I glanced up at the lens peering down at us. “Let the bastard break out his popcorn and Raisinets.”

I thought Kirk’s little grins and sideways looks were sexy before, but I didn’t have words to describe his expression now. He pulled me tight against his body and kissed me again, hard, needy. Beyond the river water, his skin still smelled of that Armani cologne, and a warm scent that was all his own.

I breathed him in, wanting to take everything about this man deep inside.

Our hospital gowns were off in seconds, and our battered bodies intertwined. At first we just clung to one another, kissing, probing. A dusting of hair covered his chest, and I ground my breasts against him, the sensation zapping through my nipples like an electric charge.

Then I was pushing him back on his bed and climbing on top of him.

He was erect, and I rubbed against him until I was wet enough to take him inside. I came on my third stroke, waves shuddering through me. I arched my back, still thrusting, and he buried his face in my chest.

I hardly knew Jonathan Kirk. And now I never really would.

But right then, he symbolized everything to me.

Sensation.

Connection.

Life itself.

I wanted to explore all of him, feel things I never had before. I wanted this to last forever, and knowing it wouldn’t made each second, each moment, each thrust and sigh and whimper all the more profound.

I sensed the muscles in his thighs tensing, trying to hold back the coming release, and slowed my motion.

Nuzzling my breasts, he looked up at me.

“What do you like most?” I breathed.

His smile was a wicked thing. “Let me taste you.”

“Me first.”

I moved down his body, littering kisses over his chest, his belly, my hair fanning over him in my wake. I trailed my tongue up the length of him, then took him full in my mouth. I tasted myself on him, the flavors and scents mingling, intoxicating.

We were good together, me and him. I’d sensed it from the first. So much alike, yet different enough to add spice. It was a cruel joke that our time together would be so short.

I didn’t let myself think of that, though, but only of the sensations. The feel of him in my mouth. The hair on his legs rubbing rough on my skin.

Our first time together.

Our last time together.

When he’d reached his climax, he found my arms with his hands, guiding me upward until I was straddled over his mouth. He teased me at first, going too slow, pulling back, torturing me with gentleness, until the tension built and built and I was thrusting myself on him, trying to capture his fluttering tongue, begging for release.

“Please …” I gasped. “Please.”

He grabbed my hips, pulling me closer, taking me firmly.

Devouring me.

I shuddered, the pleasure so intense it was almost pain, the first ripple in a building, rising wave that reduced me to nothing but pure sensation.

I could only hope the taste of me, the sound of my screams, gave him as much satisfaction as he gave me.

When my leg muscles could take no more, I moved back down his body and brushed his lips with mine.

He peered at me, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright.

I slipped next to him in the bed and fitted my body against his.

“You were amazing,” I breathed. “Just as I thought you’d be.”

“You, too.”

I shook my head slowly, the sadness creeping in. “I wish we had more time …”

“Time?” He grinned. “Babe, we got the rest of our lives.”

His hand moved between my legs and began to stroke.

I had no idea how my body had any more to give, but again I began to respond, despite the specter of death around me.

Or maybe because of it.

Sex affirms life.

He shifted, moving on top of me, keeping his weight on his elbows. I wrapped my legs around him, sighing as he entered me, burying my face in his neck as he began to thrust.

We were the only two people in the world.

Only one of us would see tomorrow.

I couldn’t think of a better way to go out.

When we finished, we held each other.

Held each other, and looked at each other.

The afterglow faded.

Dread crept back in.

The looking at each other became watching each other.

I saw it first, and it felt like a punch to the gut.

Just a small bruise on the back of the hand.

But it hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Small. Black. Harmless looking.

Then it began to grow, spreading out, taking only a few minutes to double in size while we both silently stared.

The nosebleed came next. A trickle at first. Then a steady stream.

“Aw … Chandler …” Kirk said.

I reached for the IV needle.

Hooked up the morphine.

Tried to be brave.

“It’s okay,” Kirk said, staring at me so hard he must have seen my soul.

The whites of his eyes were bright red.

Subconjunctival hemorrhage.

“It’s not okay,” I said. “Not at all.”

I held his head to my chest.

After that, things happened quickly. The progression of the virus, which normally took days, unfolded in under an hour, right in front of my eyes.

Coughing.

Coughing blood.

Vomiting blood.

Kirk didn’t despair. He didn’t complain. He didn’t cry. He didn’t do any talking, other than two softly whispered words.

“Kill him.”

I promised I would, wanting to squeeze his hand, not being able to because his skin tore as easily as tissue paper.

By the time I moved to sit on my own hospital bed, Kirk didn’t even notice. He stared into space, his red eyes blank, the muscles of his face slack. The parts of his brain that made him who he was were gone, liquefied by the virus. Only the illness’s final stage remained.

Death.

That word echoed through my mind as I witnessed the last moments of Jonathan Kirk.

“When it comes to survival, violence often isn’t the best option,” said The Instructor. “But when you choose to use it, strike hard and fast and destroy your enemy. There is no winning and losing in a fight, only living and dying.”

The room smelled like a slaughterhouse.

There was a sink, and I did my best to wash Kirk’s blood off me.

I checked myself for new bruises.

Didn’t find any.

Chilled, I pulled my hospital gown around my naked skin. My hands trembled, events of the past day catching up to me, overwhelming me. Tears brimmed my eyes, turning the world into a blurry mosaic of white and red.

I blinked them back.

Focus.

I am ice. Cold. Hard. A blow torch couldn’t thaw me.

The camera eye stared down from the ceiling. The heart monitor had been turned off, the room silent now except for the drip of Kirk’s blood on tile.

And a soft hiss …

A soft, smoky hiss, coming through the overhead vent.

I scooped in a breath, held it, then staggered and collapsed to the floor.

The hiss continued, long after my lungs had started to scream for oxygen. But I was damn good at holding my breath, and soon the tone of the sound changed to the hum of a ventilation system at work.

I let my air out slow, made my lungs take in big, deep breaths like I was asleep.

A short time later, the door opened, and four people in full, pressurized hazmat gear lumbered into the room. I heard the soft sound of wheels, as if they were pushing a tray or gurney, and the suck and release of their SCBA.

“Put her on the bed. I need some blood.”

The voice was muffled, but I could tell it was the same voice that had spoken to us over the intercom.

“Then where do you want her?”

“In the room with the girl.”

“And him?” another asked.

“You can clean that mess up later.”

Two sets of hands lifted me from the floor and dropped me onto the mattress. I caught a glimpse through my lashes, a tray filled with needles and vials. One of them grabbed my arm and wrapped a rubber tourniquet around my biceps. I felt the sting of a needle on the inside of my elbow, then a clumsy shifting as they filled tubes with my blood.

“Okay, got it. I don’t want her waking up. Stick that IV back in and get her sedated. And tie her hands to the bed rails this time. No sense in taking chances.”

I would have preferred to let them take me to Julie before making my move, at least then I’d know her location, but I couldn’t let them put me under. Still if I could bide my time, take them by surprise, hope that some left to perform other jobs, I’d have a better chance. If even one stepped out of the room, I’d increase my odds by twenty-five percent.

I stayed put, picturing the room around me in my mind’s eye, cataloguing what tools were at my disposal. Once the man at my bedside replaced the catheter in the back of my hand, he would have to reconnect the drip. For a second, he would be facing away from me, and that’s when I would make my move.

He stuck the needle in the back of my hand, and I braced myself against the pain. For several seconds he poked and jabbed, searching for a vein. Finding none, he slid the needle out and tried again.

Still no luck.

And no one had left the room. Although my eyes were closed, I could hear four distinct respirations, four sets of shuffling movement. I didn’t know if these guys were medical personnel, lab techs, or soldiers, but judging from the skill set of the one prodding me, I was leaning toward soldiers. They would know how to fight.

But when he stuck the needle in for a third time and started digging around, I knew I couldn’t take it any longer.

Focused on poking the hell out of my left hand, my torturer didn’t see my right until it was too late.

I brought the heel up fast and plowed it into his nose, driving upward.

CBRN suits are designed for soldiers to wear in combat. Hazmat suits, like these, were not.

The face shield collapsed under my blow. The guy made a grunting noise and flew backward, hitting the floor hard.

A human being’s reaction to a swift violent assault is to freeze. Like a deer in the headlights, the body biologically seeks to hide in plain sight in hopes the predator will pass them by. It takes years of training to shorten this natural reaction. Even then, training wasn’t the same as engaging in the real thing.

I’d engaged in the real thing more than I liked to think about.

I was moving before they’d realized the first man was down.

Grabbing the stainless steel IV pole—a solid bar with some serious heft—I pulled the adjustable portion from the bed and started swinging.

The second man hadn’t had the chance to turn around, and I hit him hard in back of the neck, connecting with the cervical vertebrae. He went down immediately, leaving me with only two to go.

The odds were getting better.

I went after the third.

He managed to step backward, making my next swing miss. Then threw a right hook. The move was clumsy, the suit slowing him down, and I blocked the blow and retaliated with an elbow strike that dented his face mask and exploded his nose, coating the inside of his visor with blood.

The fourth man—the oldest of the group—ran from the room.

The first man had staggered to his feet. He came at me from behind with a bear hug.

I drilled the back end of the pole into his gut. He doubled over, choking and gasping.

I went after him again, clanging him in the head with everything I had, putting him out before man number three tackled me from behind.

I sprawled forward, hitting the floor on hands and knees, the brute landing on top of me. Air was sucked from my lungs. He grabbed my hair, lifted my head with a yank, then smashed my forehead against the tile.

Sparks of light blossomed behind my eyes.

I had to get him off me. One more hit to my brain pan and I wouldn’t be able to function.

Face pressed to the cold floor, I willed the dizziness back and searched for something I could use as a weapon.

There.

I reached out my hand, skimming it over the tile until I hit something slick and wet—the remnants of Kirk.

Then I snaked my arm back to the hand tangled in my hair. The hazmat suit was thick and strong, made in layers to keep out the smallest biological agents, viruses. But the gloves were attached with nothing more than duct tape.

I sank the bloody IV needle into the meat of his wrist.

A bellow echoed through the room. He released my hair and scrambled off my back.

The door opened, and the man who’d fled stepped back inside, a pistol in his gloved hand.

“Dr. Pembrooke! She put an infected needle in my arm,” the one I stabbed began to scream. He didn’t move, just kept screaming, even as I got to my feet.

“Stop,” Pembrooke said. “I don’t want to have to shoot you, but I will.”

The man I’d stabbed with the needle started to sob.

“Get in the decon shower,” Pembrooke ordered.

“But she got the last dose of vaccine—”

“Get. In. The shower. Now.”

The sobbing man hurried out of the room.

And then there was one.

Of course, the one remaining—the doctor himself—had a pistol pointed at me. And even though he looked to be inexperienced with a firearm, a man with a firearm was still a man who had to be respected.

But only as long as he still held said firearm.

Careful not to take his eyes or the gun barrel off me, he stooped to pick up one of the syringes from the floor. He tossed it to me. I caught it and stared at the fluid inside.

“It’s a sedative. You know how to give yourself a shot?”

I couldn’t suppress a laugh and didn’t try.

“You expect me to knock myself out so you can, what? Study me?”

“Study how your body managed to avoid contracting the Ebola. Yes.”

This guy was a piece of work. People could die all around him, and all that mattered were the next tests he might be able to perform.

I supposed it was handy for a scientist who worked on biological weapons to also be a psychopath.

An awful scenario washed through my mind.

“Am I a carrier now?”

“With biology, you can never be sure. But, I don’t expect you are. A blood sample should prove it, one way or another.”

“So test it,” I said.

“I will, after you give yourself that shot.”

“I’m not letting you put me under.”

“You’re not in a position to be making deals.”

“You’re not very experienced with handguns.”

A brief flash of uncertainty flinched behind his eyes. He recovered quickly, but he’d told me what I needed to know.

I took a step forward.

“I hope your first shot is a good one,” I said softly. “Because you won’t get the chance to take another.”

He extended the gun, aiming right at my center mass. “I can perform my tests on you whether you’re dead or alive.”

There was only a meter between us, and he wouldn’t miss. I was fast, but bullets were faster.

This wasn’t the moment. I had to catch him off guard.

“Why Julie?” I asked. “Why is she the carrier?”

Ask a man about something important to him, and he’ll never shut up.

“She’s one in a million. One in a billion. I theorized that someone with her unique genetic markers might exist. Someone who could carry the virus and remain asymptomatic. You have no idea how much blood we tested, how many false starts we had.”

“You tried this before,” I stated. “With others.”

Pembrooke nodded, seemingly proud of the fact.

“Many others. Those free clinics are funded by tax dollars, but used by those who contribute nothing to this country. It’s about time those freeloaders gave something back.”

I’d met a few psychos in my time, but never one who looked like someone’s grandfather.

“How many people have you killed while trying to find a Julie, Pembrooke?”

He shrugged. “You know the saying. To make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs. Now inject yourself.”

I shook my head. “No way.”

“Either you let me sedate you, or I kill you.”

I held the syringe in both hands—

—then snapped it in half.

“That did nothing. I have more.”

“So go get it. I promise I’ll stay here and wait for you.”

I could see him working it out in his head, wondering what to do next.

I was wondering the same thing.

Then the obvious hit me.

Pembrooke wasn’t a pro. So I didn’t have to treat him like one.

I looked over his shoulder at someone who wasn’t there and made my eyes wide.

“Do it!” I yelled at my imaginary savior. “Now!”

I sold it well. And like any amateur, Pembrooke bought the act, craning his neck around to see who was there.

I moved forward, to the side of the gun, putting my palm on the hammer and squeezing so Pembrooke couldn’t fire, then twisting my body around and snapping my elbow against Pembrooke’s faceplate.

He went down, falling onto his ass as he released the gun.

I pointed it at his head.

“How many people are at this facility?”

“What?”

“Who else is here?”

“No one. Just us.”

“No guards?”

Pembrooke motioned to the men on the floor behind me. “Those were the guards. Them and Johnson, in the decon shower.”

“If you’re lying to me—”

“I’m not lying. The full team won’t be here until tomorrow. We have to take steps to make sure there are no accidents, like there were last time.”

I searched his face, judged him sincere.

“Where’s Julie?”

“The other side of the facility. She’s sedated.”

“Thanks. That’s all I need from you.”

His eye went wide, and I had to admit to some base satisfaction watching him piss himself.

“Please! You can’t kill me. Our country needs me! I’m the only one who can protect us! I’m a brilliant man!”

“You’re not brilliant, Pembrooke. You want to know what you are?” I put the gun to his eye, let him see his own death down the barrel. “You’re an omelet. And I’m about to break a few eggs.”

“NO!”

I raised the gun, then clubbed him across the side of the head. He collapsed onto his side.

I checked the two men I’d put down earlier. They were both gone. I searched them, found some plastic zip ties.

I pulled Pembrooke over to Kirk’s bed, and bound his wrists to the railing.

Then I took Kirk’s hand—the one that an hour ago was touching me—and jammed the blood-soaked fingers into Pembrooke’s mouth.

“There you go, Kirk,” I said. “I didn’t have to kill him. You did it yourself.”

I found Julie where Pembrooke said she’d be. As he’d also stated, there didn’t seem to be anyone else at the facility. By the time I found Johnson, in the decontamination shower, he was already starting to hemorrhage from the virus.

I put a bullet in his head to ease his passing.

Then I went back to Pembrooke.

He was awake. And unlike Kirk, he despaired. He complained. He cried.

He also had two last words.

“Kill me.”

“Doctor,” I said. “Heal thyself.”

I stayed until he crashed and bled out.

My phone was in Pembrooke’s office, along with my clothing. I took a decon shower before dressing, and then got to work. I was apparently immune to Ebola, but I didn’t want to spread the disease to anyone else.

It took me less than an hour to do what needed to be done.

There was only one final loose end.

Julie.

I tugged my purse over my shoulder. My purse, with the wire garrote in the strap.

Not such a bad way to go, being strangled while under sedation.

I went to her, stood at the foot of her bed.